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Scaena Septima.
Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Gentleman.
Cor. O thou good Kent,
How shall I liue and worke
To match thy goodnesse?
My life will be too short,
And euery measure faile me
Kent. To be acknowledg'd Madam is ore-pai'd,
All my reports go with the modest truth,
Nor more, nor clipt, but so
Cor. Be better suited,
These weedes are memories of those worser houres:
I prythee put them off
Kent. Pardon deere Madam,
Yet to be knowne shortens my made intent,
My boone I make it, that you know me not,
Till time, and I, thinke meet
Cor. Then be't so my good Lord:
How do's the King?
Gent. Madam sleepes still
Cor. O you kind Gods!
Cure this great breach in his abused Nature,
Th' vntun'd and iarring senses, O winde vp,
Of this childe-changed Father
Gent. So please your Maiesty,
That we may wake the King, he hath slept long?
Cor. Be gouern'd by your knowledge, and proceede
I'th' sway of your owne will: is he array'd?
Enter Lear in a chaire carried by Seruants]
Gent. I Madam: in the heauinesse of sleepe,
We put fresh garments on him.
Be by good Madam when we do awake him,
I doubt of his Temperance
Cor. O my deere Father, restauratian hang
Thy medicine on my lippes, and let this kisse
Repaire those violent harmes, that my two Sisters
Haue in thy Reuerence made
Kent. Kind and deere Princesse
Cor. Had you not bin their Father, these white flakes
Did challenge pitty of them. Was this a face
To be oppos'd against the iarring windes?
Mine Enemies dogge, though he had bit me,
Should haue stood that night against my fire,
And was't thou faine (poore Father)
To houell thee with Swine and Rogues forlorne,
In short, and musty straw? Alacke, alacke,
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once
Had not concluded all. He wakes, speake to him
Gen. Madam do you, 'tis fittest
Cor. How does my Royall Lord?
How fares your Maiesty?
Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o'th' graue,
Thou art a Soule in blisse, but I am bound
Vpon a wheele of fire, that mine owne teares
Do scal'd, like molten Lead
Cor. Sir, do you know me?
Lear. You are a spirit I know, where did you dye?
Cor. Still, still, farre wide
Gen. He's scarse awake,
Let him alone a while
Lear. Where haue I bin?
Where am I? Faire day light?
I am mightily abus'd; I should eu'n dye with pitty
To see another thus. I know not what to say:
I will not sweare these are my hands: let's see,
I feele this pin pricke, would I were assur'd
Of my condition
Cor. O looke vpon me Sir,
And hold your hand in benediction o're me,
You must not kneele
Lear. Pray do not mocke me:
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourescore and vpward,
Not an houre more, nor lesse:
And to deale plainely,
I feare I am not in my perfect mind.
Me thinkes I should know you, and know this man,
Yet I am doubtfull: For I am mainely ignorant
What place this is: and all the skill I haue
Remembers not these garments: nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me,
For (as I am a man) I thinke this Lady
To be my childe Cordelia
Cor. And so I am: I am
Lear. Be your teares wet?
Yes faith: I pray weepe not,
If you haue poyson for me, I will drinke it:
I know you do not loue me, for your Sisters
Haue (as I do remember) done me wrong.
You haue some cause, they haue not
Cor. No cause, no cause
Lear. Am I in France?
Kent. In your owne kingdome Sir
Lear. Do not abuse me
Gent. Be comforted good Madam, the great rage
You see is kill'd in him: desire him to go in,
Trouble him no more till further setling
Cor. Wilt please your Highnesse walke?
Lear. You must beare with me:
Pray you now forget, and forgiue,
I am old and foolish.
Exeunt.
| Kent reveals his true identity to Cordelia, who expresses her thanks to him for the assistance he has given to her father. Kent will continue to play the part of Caius as he has still work to do. Cordelia's physician advises that the King has slept long and when he is roused it will be to the tune of healing music. Lear is brought in carried on a chair and Cordelia tenderly kisses him. They are reconciled. At first Lear thinks that Cordelia is an angel who has rescued him from purgatory. He soon regains his senses and humbly pleads for his daughter's forgiveness. Cordelia confirms that he is still in his own country and not in France. The physician exits with Lear for he is still not fully restored. Cordelia and Kent learn that Edmund is now in command of Cornwall's army and there is a rumor abroad that both Edgar and Kent have fled to Germany. Kent states that no time must be lost as the battle is imminent. | summary |
Scaena Septima.
Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Gentleman.
Cor. O thou good Kent,
How shall I liue and worke
To match thy goodnesse?
My life will be too short,
And euery measure faile me
Kent. To be acknowledg'd Madam is ore-pai'd,
All my reports go with the modest truth,
Nor more, nor clipt, but so
Cor. Be better suited,
These weedes are memories of those worser houres:
I prythee put them off
Kent. Pardon deere Madam,
Yet to be knowne shortens my made intent,
My boone I make it, that you know me not,
Till time, and I, thinke meet
Cor. Then be't so my good Lord:
How do's the King?
Gent. Madam sleepes still
Cor. O you kind Gods!
Cure this great breach in his abused Nature,
Th' vntun'd and iarring senses, O winde vp,
Of this childe-changed Father
Gent. So please your Maiesty,
That we may wake the King, he hath slept long?
Cor. Be gouern'd by your knowledge, and proceede
I'th' sway of your owne will: is he array'd?
Enter Lear in a chaire carried by Seruants]
Gent. I Madam: in the heauinesse of sleepe,
We put fresh garments on him.
Be by good Madam when we do awake him,
I doubt of his Temperance
Cor. O my deere Father, restauratian hang
Thy medicine on my lippes, and let this kisse
Repaire those violent harmes, that my two Sisters
Haue in thy Reuerence made
Kent. Kind and deere Princesse
Cor. Had you not bin their Father, these white flakes
Did challenge pitty of them. Was this a face
To be oppos'd against the iarring windes?
Mine Enemies dogge, though he had bit me,
Should haue stood that night against my fire,
And was't thou faine (poore Father)
To houell thee with Swine and Rogues forlorne,
In short, and musty straw? Alacke, alacke,
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once
Had not concluded all. He wakes, speake to him
Gen. Madam do you, 'tis fittest
Cor. How does my Royall Lord?
How fares your Maiesty?
Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o'th' graue,
Thou art a Soule in blisse, but I am bound
Vpon a wheele of fire, that mine owne teares
Do scal'd, like molten Lead
Cor. Sir, do you know me?
Lear. You are a spirit I know, where did you dye?
Cor. Still, still, farre wide
Gen. He's scarse awake,
Let him alone a while
Lear. Where haue I bin?
Where am I? Faire day light?
I am mightily abus'd; I should eu'n dye with pitty
To see another thus. I know not what to say:
I will not sweare these are my hands: let's see,
I feele this pin pricke, would I were assur'd
Of my condition
Cor. O looke vpon me Sir,
And hold your hand in benediction o're me,
You must not kneele
Lear. Pray do not mocke me:
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourescore and vpward,
Not an houre more, nor lesse:
And to deale plainely,
I feare I am not in my perfect mind.
Me thinkes I should know you, and know this man,
Yet I am doubtfull: For I am mainely ignorant
What place this is: and all the skill I haue
Remembers not these garments: nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me,
For (as I am a man) I thinke this Lady
To be my childe Cordelia
Cor. And so I am: I am
Lear. Be your teares wet?
Yes faith: I pray weepe not,
If you haue poyson for me, I will drinke it:
I know you do not loue me, for your Sisters
Haue (as I do remember) done me wrong.
You haue some cause, they haue not
Cor. No cause, no cause
Lear. Am I in France?
Kent. In your owne kingdome Sir
Lear. Do not abuse me
Gent. Be comforted good Madam, the great rage
You see is kill'd in him: desire him to go in,
Trouble him no more till further setling
Cor. Wilt please your Highnesse walke?
Lear. You must beare with me:
Pray you now forget, and forgiue,
I am old and foolish.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation We are not clear why Kent intends to maintain his disguise, but he felt it necessary to reveal his true identity to Cordelia. We can guess that Kent views this time as the climax of his long years of service to the King and his country. Since the King's rescue, he has spent much of his time sleeping and recovering from his ordeal. It takes a while for him to return to full consciousness and he mistakes Cordelia for an angel. Shakespeare is reinforcing the idea that Cordelia represents the height of feminine virtue and honesty. There are again further indications regarding Lear's transformation. His dialogue with Cordelia makes no mention of status or tests of love, but is merely a father being reunited with his daughter. This scene contrasts greatly from the corresponding scene in Act I where father dismissed daughter. We read Lear's statement to Cordelia, Do not laugh at me; for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia." This confirms that Lear has regained his sanity. We learn that Lear's return from a deep sleep was accompanied by soothing music. Symbolically this replaces the crashing storm that he fought with on the heath, which symbolized his own state of mind and the evil of his older daughters. The music underlines the return of order to Lear's world. Cordelia is clearly at the far end of the scale from her two sisters, for there is no indication that she desires revenge for what her father has suffered. | analysis |
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
Enter with Drumme and Colours, Edmund, Regan. Gentlemen, and
Souldiers.
Bast. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold,
Or whether since he is aduis'd by ought
To change the course, he's full of alteration,
And selfereprouing, bring his constant pleasure
Reg. Our Sisters man is certainely miscarried
Bast. 'Tis to be doubted Madam
Reg. Now sweet Lord,
You know the goodnesse I intend vpon you:
Tell me but truly, but then speake the truth,
Do you not loue my Sister?
Bast. In honour'd Loue
Reg. But haue you neuer found my Brothers way,
To the fore-fended place?
Bast. No by mine honour, Madam
Reg. I neuer shall endure her, deere my Lord
Be not familiar with her
Bast. Feare not, she and the Duke her husband.
Enter with Drum and Colours, Albany, Gonerill, Soldiers.
Alb. Our very louing Sister, well be-met:
Sir, this I heard, the King is come to his Daughter
With others, whom the rigour of our State
Forc'd to cry out
Regan. Why is this reasond?
Gone. Combine together 'gainst the Enemie:
For these domesticke and particular broiles,
Are not the question heere
Alb. Let's then determine with th' ancient of warre
On our proceeding
Reg. Sister you'le go with vs?
Gon. No
Reg. 'Tis most conuenient, pray go with vs
Gon. Oh ho, I know the Riddle, I will goe.
Exeunt. both the Armies.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. If ere your Grace had speech with man so poore,
Heare me one word
Alb. Ile ouertake you, speake
Edg. Before you fight the Battaile, ope this Letter:
If you haue victory, let the Trumpet sound
For him that brought it: wretched though I seeme,
I can produce a Champion, that will proue
What is auouched there. If you miscarry,
Your businesse of the world hath so an end,
And machination ceases. Fortune loues you
Alb. Stay till I haue read the Letter
Edg. I was forbid it:
When time shall serue, let but the Herald cry,
And Ile appeare againe.
Enter.
Alb. Why farethee well, I will o're-looke thy paper.
Enter Edmund.
Bast. The Enemy's in view, draw vp your powers,
Heere is the guesse of their true strength and Forces,
By dilligent discouerie, but your hast
Is now vrg'd on you
Alb. We will greet the time.
Enter.
Bast. To both these Sisters haue I sworne my loue:
Each iealous of the other, as the stung
Are of the Adder. Which of them shall I take?
Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enioy'd
If both remaine aliue: To take the Widdow,
Exasperates, makes mad her Sister Gonerill,
And hardly shall I carry out my side,
Her husband being aliue. Now then, wee'l vse
His countenance for the Battaile, which being done,
Let her who would be rid of him, deuise
His speedy taking off. As for the mercie
Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia,
The Battaile done, and they within our power,
Shall neuer see his pardon: for my state,
Stands on me to defend, not to debate.
Enter.
| Edmund and Regan have assembled their army, but they wonder whether Albany is resolute in his intention to fight against the French. They are also concerned about Oswald's disappearance and they feel sure he has met with disaster. Regan makes it clear that she lusts after Edmund, but she is also consumed with jealousy in case he chooses Goneril. Edmund reassures Regan that he has not sought or enjoyed any favors from Goneril. Goneril and Albany enter with their army. Goneril makes an aside that she would rather lose the battle than have Regan win Edmund. Albany makes it clear that he will only fight against the French invaders and not any British subjects or King Lear. Edmund and Albany have a counsel of war before the battle. Regan and Goneril keep a close eye on one another. Edgar enters, still disguised, and gives Albany a letter that he had removed from Oswald's body. This letter contains orders from Goneril to Edmund to kill her husband Albany. Edgar leaves, and Edmund re-enters with the news that the opposing army approaches. The scene ends with Edmund delivering a soliloquy where he reveals his thoughts and plans. | summary |
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
Enter with Drumme and Colours, Edmund, Regan. Gentlemen, and
Souldiers.
Bast. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold,
Or whether since he is aduis'd by ought
To change the course, he's full of alteration,
And selfereprouing, bring his constant pleasure
Reg. Our Sisters man is certainely miscarried
Bast. 'Tis to be doubted Madam
Reg. Now sweet Lord,
You know the goodnesse I intend vpon you:
Tell me but truly, but then speake the truth,
Do you not loue my Sister?
Bast. In honour'd Loue
Reg. But haue you neuer found my Brothers way,
To the fore-fended place?
Bast. No by mine honour, Madam
Reg. I neuer shall endure her, deere my Lord
Be not familiar with her
Bast. Feare not, she and the Duke her husband.
Enter with Drum and Colours, Albany, Gonerill, Soldiers.
Alb. Our very louing Sister, well be-met:
Sir, this I heard, the King is come to his Daughter
With others, whom the rigour of our State
Forc'd to cry out
Regan. Why is this reasond?
Gone. Combine together 'gainst the Enemie:
For these domesticke and particular broiles,
Are not the question heere
Alb. Let's then determine with th' ancient of warre
On our proceeding
Reg. Sister you'le go with vs?
Gon. No
Reg. 'Tis most conuenient, pray go with vs
Gon. Oh ho, I know the Riddle, I will goe.
Exeunt. both the Armies.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. If ere your Grace had speech with man so poore,
Heare me one word
Alb. Ile ouertake you, speake
Edg. Before you fight the Battaile, ope this Letter:
If you haue victory, let the Trumpet sound
For him that brought it: wretched though I seeme,
I can produce a Champion, that will proue
What is auouched there. If you miscarry,
Your businesse of the world hath so an end,
And machination ceases. Fortune loues you
Alb. Stay till I haue read the Letter
Edg. I was forbid it:
When time shall serue, let but the Herald cry,
And Ile appeare againe.
Enter.
Alb. Why farethee well, I will o're-looke thy paper.
Enter Edmund.
Bast. The Enemy's in view, draw vp your powers,
Heere is the guesse of their true strength and Forces,
By dilligent discouerie, but your hast
Is now vrg'd on you
Alb. We will greet the time.
Enter.
Bast. To both these Sisters haue I sworne my loue:
Each iealous of the other, as the stung
Are of the Adder. Which of them shall I take?
Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enioy'd
If both remaine aliue: To take the Widdow,
Exasperates, makes mad her Sister Gonerill,
And hardly shall I carry out my side,
Her husband being aliue. Now then, wee'l vse
His countenance for the Battaile, which being done,
Let her who would be rid of him, deuise
His speedy taking off. As for the mercie
Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia,
The Battaile done, and they within our power,
Shall neuer see his pardon: for my state,
Stands on me to defend, not to debate.
Enter.
| Interpretation This scene merely provides more information concerning the triangle between Edmund, Goneril and Regan. The two sisters' jealousy heightens and their competition over Edmund intensifies. Edgar provides Albany with the evidence of Goneril's plot to kill him in order that she may be totally free to form an alliance with Edmund. The sisters' behavior in this scene is quite pathetic and their behavior is further ridiculed when we hear Edmund's soliloquy. We read, "To both these sisters have I sworn my love; Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enjoy’d, If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now then, we'll use His countenance for the battle; which being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and Cordelia The battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon; for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate." Amidst all this turmoil, Edmund remains cool, calm and calculating. He debates with himself which sister to have, if any. His attitude is almost cavalier. He talks of the sisters as if they were livestock and he is the farmer at an auction, where in fact he is talking about two Princesses of the Kingdom. He is not the least bit intimidated by them. Perhaps that is why they are attracted to him, but we read above that he recognizes exactly what they are - two jealous, poisonous snakes, but he is not daunted by them. Shakespeare has created a different type of villain. He is not like Iago, who quests power over Othello so as to unravel him. He is not like Richard III who lusts for power. He is a manipulator and relishes the fact that he is a bastard. He regards himself as a representative of his kind and he wishes to reverse the conventions so that his race can have power and rule. It is almost an unholy quest that he is championing. In the end, he will let certain events run their course. He will use Albany in the forthcoming battle. He will be a figurehead and rallying point of his own troops, but once victory has been won, he will stand back and let Goneril kill her husband. He certainly does not wish Albany to exercise clemency over Lear and Cordelia, who will be disposed on when captured. What is certainly clear is that Edmund appears to have no feelings for anyone, in particular Regan and Goneril, so whether he ends up with both, one or neither, is really immaterial to him. | analysis |
Scena Secunda.
Alarum within. Enter with Drumme and Colours, Lear, Cordelia,
and
Souldiers, ouer the Stage, and Exeunt. Enter Edgar, and Gloster.
Edg. Heere Father, take the shadow of this Tree
For your good hoast: pray that the right may thriue:
If euer I returne to you againe,
Ile bring you comfort
Glo. Grace go with you Sir.
Enter.
Alarum and Retreat within. Enter Edgar.
Edgar. Away old man, giue me thy hand, away:
King Lear hath lost, he and his Daughter tane,
Giue me thy hand: Come on
Glo. No further Sir, a man may rot euen heere
Edg. What in ill thoughts againe?
Men must endure
Their going hence, euen as their comming hither,
Ripenesse is all come on
Glo. And that's true too.
Exeunt.
| Cordelia, Lear and their army move to engage with Edmund and Albany's army. Edgar and Gloucester hide nearby to await the outcome of the battle. Once Edgar has ensured that Gloucester is safe, he leaves to see how the battle progresses. He returns with bad news that Lear's forces have lost and he and Cordelia have been taken prisoner. | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Alarum within. Enter with Drumme and Colours, Lear, Cordelia,
and
Souldiers, ouer the Stage, and Exeunt. Enter Edgar, and Gloster.
Edg. Heere Father, take the shadow of this Tree
For your good hoast: pray that the right may thriue:
If euer I returne to you againe,
Ile bring you comfort
Glo. Grace go with you Sir.
Enter.
Alarum and Retreat within. Enter Edgar.
Edgar. Away old man, giue me thy hand, away:
King Lear hath lost, he and his Daughter tane,
Giue me thy hand: Come on
Glo. No further Sir, a man may rot euen heere
Edg. What in ill thoughts againe?
Men must endure
Their going hence, euen as their comming hither,
Ripenesse is all come on
Glo. And that's true too.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation Shakespeare snatches away from the audience their hope that Lear's suffering has been ended. The hopes raised in Act IV Scene.vii are now dashed. This comfortless epic fascinates the audience because they can feel the power of the tragedy that Lear has to endure, like the biblical Job. | analysis |
Scena Tertia.
Enter in conquest with Drum and Colours, Edmund, Lear, and
Cordelia, as
prisoners, Souldiers, Captaine.
Bast. Some Officers take them away: good guard,
Vntill their greater pleasures first be knowne
That are to censure them
Cor. We are not the first,
Who with best meaning haue incurr'd the worst:
For thee oppressed King I am cast downe,
My selfe could else out-frowne false Fortunes frowne.
Shall we not see these Daughters, and these Sisters?
Lear. No, no, no, no: come let's away to prison,
We two alone will sing like Birds i'th' Cage:
When thou dost aske me blessing, Ile kneele downe
And aske of thee forgiuenesse: So wee'l liue,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded Butterflies: and heere (poore Rogues)
Talke of Court newes, and wee'l talke with them too,
Who looses, and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take vpon's the mystery of things,
As if we were Gods spies: And wee'l weare out
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebbe and flow by th' Moone
Bast. Take them away
Lear. Vpon such sacrifices my Cordelia,
The Gods themselues throw Incense.
Haue I caught thee?
He that parts vs, shall bring a Brand from Heauen,
And fire vs hence, like Foxes: wipe thine eyes,
The good yeares shall deuoure them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make vs weepe?
Weele see 'em staru'd first: come.
Enter.
Bast. Come hither Captaine, hearke.
Take thou this note, go follow them to prison,
One step I haue aduanc'd thee, if thou do'st
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way
To Noble Fortunes: know thou this, that men
Are as the time is; to be tender minded
Do's not become a Sword, thy great imployment
Will not beare question: either say thou'lt do't,
Or thriue by other meanes
Capt. Ile do't my Lord
Bast. About it, and write happy, when th'hast done,
Marke I say instantly, and carry it so
As I haue set it downe.
Exit Captaine.
Flourish. Enter Albany, Gonerill, Regan, Soldiers.
Alb. Sir, you haue shew'd to day your valiant straine
And Fortune led you well: you haue the Captiues
Who were the opposites of this dayes strife:
I do require them of you so to vse them,
As we shall find their merites, and our safety
May equally determine
Bast. Sir, I thought it fit,
To send the old and miserable King to some retention,
Whose age had Charmes in it, whose Title more,
To plucke the common bosome on his side,
And turne our imprest Launces in our eies
Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen:
My reason all the same, and they are ready
To morrow, or at further space, t' appeare
Where you shall hold your Session
Alb. Sir, by your patience,
I hold you but a subiect of this Warre,
Not as a Brother
Reg. That's as we list to grace him.
Methinkes our pleasure might haue bin demanded
Ere you had spoke so farre. He led our Powers,
Bore the Commission of my place and person,
The which immediacie may well stand vp,
And call it selfe your Brother
Gon. Not so hot:
In his owne grace he doth exalt himselfe,
More then in your addition
Reg. In my rights,
By me inuested, he compeeres the best
Alb. That were the most, if he should husband you
Reg. Iesters do oft proue Prophets
Gon. Hola, hola,
That eye that told you so, look'd but a squint
Rega. Lady I am not well, else I should answere
From a full flowing stomack. Generall,
Take thou my Souldiers, prisoners, patrimony,
Dispose of them, of me, the walls is thine:
Witnesse the world, that I create thee heere
My Lord, and Master
Gon. Meane you to enioy him?
Alb. The let alone lies not in your good will
Bast. Nor in thine Lord
Alb. Halfe-blooded fellow, yes
Reg. Let the Drum strike, and proue my title thine
Alb. Stay yet, heare reason: Edmund, I arrest thee
On capitall Treason; and in thy arrest,
This guilded Serpent: for your claime faire Sisters,
I bare it in the interest of my wife,
'Tis she is sub-contracted to this Lord,
And I her husband contradict your Banes.
If you will marry, make your loues to me,
My Lady is bespoke
Gon. An enterlude
Alb. Thou art armed Gloster,
Let the Trumpet sound:
If none appeare to proue vpon thy person,
Thy heynous, manifest, and many Treasons,
There is my pledge: Ile make it on thy heart
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing lesse
Then I haue heere proclaim'd thee
Reg. Sicke, O sicke
Gon. If not, Ile nere trust medicine
Bast. There's my exchange, what in the world hes
That names me Traitor, villain-like he lies,
Call by the Trumpet: he that dares approach;
On him, on you, who not, I will maintaine
My truth and honor firmely.
Enter a Herald.
Alb. A Herald, ho.
Trust to thy single vertue, for thy Souldiers
All leuied in my name, haue in my name
Tooke their discharge
Regan. My sicknesse growes vpon me
Alb. She is not well, conuey her to my Tent.
Come hither Herald, let the Trumpet sound,
And read out this.
A Trumpet sounds.
Herald reads.
If any man of qualitie or degree, within the lists of the Army,
will maintaine vpon Edmund, supposed Earle of Gloster,
that he is a manifold Traitor, let him appeare by the third
sound of the Trumpet: he is bold in his defence.
1 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
2 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
3 Trumpet.
Trumpet answers within.
Enter Edgar armed.
Alb. Aske him his purposes, why he appeares
Vpon this Call o'th' Trumpet
Her. What are you?
Your name, your quality, and why you answer
This present Summons?
Edg. Know my name is lost
By Treasons tooth: bare-gnawne, and Canker-bit,
Yet am I Noble as the Aduersary
I come to cope
Alb. Which is that Aduersary?
Edg. What's he that speakes for Edmund Earle of Gloster?
Bast. Himselfe, what saist thou to him?
Edg. Draw thy Sword,
That if my speech offend a Noble heart,
Thy arme may do thee Iustice, heere is mine:
Behold it is my priuiledge,
The priuiledge of mine Honours,
My oath, and my profession. I protest,
Maugre thy strength, place, youth, and eminence,
Despise thy victor-Sword, and fire new Fortune,
Thy valor, and thy heart, thou art a Traitor:
False to thy Gods, thy Brother, and thy Father,
Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious Prince,
And from th' extremest vpward of thy head,
To the discent and dust below thy foote,
A most Toad-spotted Traitor. Say thou no,
This Sword, this arme, and my best spirits are bent
To proue vpon thy heart, where to I speake,
Thou lyest
Bast. In wisedome I should aske thy name,
But since thy out-side lookes so faire and Warlike,
And that thy tongue (some say) of breeding breathes,
What safe, and nicely I might well delay,
By rule of Knight-hood, I disdaine and spurne:
Backe do I tosse these Treasons to thy head,
With the hell-hated Lye, ore-whelme thy heart,
Which for they yet glance by, and scarcely bruise,
This Sword of mine shall giue them instant way,
Where they shall rest for euer. Trumpets speake
Alb. Saue him, saue him.
Alarums. Fights.
Gon. This is practise Gloster,
By th' law of Warre, thou wast not bound to answer
An vnknowne opposite: thou art not vanquish'd,
But cozend, and beguild
Alb. Shut your mouth Dame,
Or with this paper shall I stop it: hold Sir,
Thou worse then any name, reade thine owne euill:
No tearing Lady, I perceiue you know it
Gon. Say if I do, the Lawes are mine not thine,
Who can araigne me for't?
Enter.
Alb. Most monstrous! O, know'st thou this paper?
Bast. Aske me not what I know
Alb. Go after her, she's desperate, gouerne her
Bast. What you haue charg'd me with,
That haue I done,
And more, much more, the time will bring it out.
'Tis past, and so am I: But what art thou
That hast this Fortune on me? If thou'rt Noble,
I do forgiue thee
Edg. Let's exchange charity:
I am no lesse in blood then thou art Edmond,
If more, the more th'hast wrong'd me.
My name is Edgar and thy Fathers Sonne,
The Gods are iust, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague vs:
The darke and vitious place where thee he got,
Cost him his eyes
Bast. Th'hast spoken right, 'tis true,
The Wheele is come full circle, I am heere
Alb. Me thought thy very gate did prophesie
A Royall Noblenesse: I must embrace thee,
Let sorrow split my heart, if euer I
Did hate thee, or thy Father
Edg. Worthy Prince I know't
Alb. Where haue you hid your selfe?
How haue you knowne the miseries of your Father?
Edg. By nursing them my Lord. List a breefe tale,
And when 'tis told, O that my heart would burst.
The bloody proclamation to escape
That follow'd me so neere, (O our liues sweetnesse,
That we the paine of death would hourely dye,
Rather then die at once) taught me to shift
Into a mad-mans rags, t' assume a semblance
That very Dogges disdain'd: and in this habit
Met I my Father with his bleeding Rings,
Their precious Stones new lost: became his guide,
Led him, begg'd for him, sau'd him from dispaire.
Neuer (O fault) reueal'd my selfe vnto him,
Vntill some halfe houre past when I was arm'd,
Not sure, though hoping of this good successe,
I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last
Told him our pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart
(Alacke too weake the conflict to support)
Twixt two extremes of passion, ioy and greefe,
Burst smilingly
Bast. This speech of yours hath mou'd me,
And shall perchance do good, but speake you on,
You looke as you had something more to say
Alb. If there be more, more wofull, hold it in,
For I am almost ready to dissolue,
Hearing of this.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gen. Helpe, helpe: O helpe
Edg. What kinde of helpe?
Alb. Speake man
Edg. What meanes this bloody Knife?
Gen. 'Tis hot, it smoakes, it came euen from the heart
of- O she's dead
Alb. Who dead? Speake man
Gen. Your Lady Sir, your Lady; and her Sister
By her is poyson'd: she confesses it
Bast. I was contracted to them both, all three
Now marry in an instant
Edg. Here comes Kent.
Enter Kent.
Alb. Produce the bodies, be they aliue or dead;
Gonerill and Regans bodies brought out.
This iudgement of the Heauens that makes vs tremble.
Touches vs not with pitty: O, is this he?
The time will not allow the complement
Which very manners vrges
Kent. I am come
To bid my King and Master aye good night.
Is he not here?
Alb. Great thing of vs forgot,
Speake Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia?
Seest thou this obiect Kent?
Kent. Alacke, why thus?
Bast. Yet Edmund was belou'd:
The one the other poison'd for my sake,
And after slew herselfe
Alb. Euen so: couer their faces
Bast. I pant for life: some good I meane to do
Despight of mine owne Nature. Quickly send,
(Be briefe in it) to'th' Castle, for my Writ
Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia:
Nay, send in time
Alb. Run, run, O run
Edg. To who my Lord? Who ha's the Office?
Send thy token of repreeue
Bast. Well thought on, take my Sword,
Giue it the Captaine
Edg. Hast thee for thy life
Bast. He hath Commission from thy Wife and me,
To hang Cordelia in the prison, and
To lay the blame vpon her owne dispaire,
That she for-did her selfe
Alb. The Gods defend her, beare him hence awhile.
Enter Lear with Cordelia in his armes.
Lear. Howle, howle, howle: O you are men of stones,
Had I your tongues and eyes, Il'd vse them so,
That Heauens vault should crack: she's gone for euer.
I know when one is dead, and when one liues,
She's dead as earth: Lend me a Looking-glasse,
If that her breath will mist or staine the stone,
Why then she liues
Kent. Is this the promis'd end?
Edg. Or image of that horror
Alb. Fall and cease
Lear. This feather stirs, she liues: if it be so,
It is a chance which do's redeeme all sorrowes
That euer I haue felt
Kent. O my good Master
Lear. Prythee away
Edg. 'Tis Noble Kent your Friend
Lear. A plague vpon you Murderors, Traitors all,
I might haue sau'd her, now she's gone for euer:
Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha:
What is't thou saist? Her voice was euer soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the Slaue that was a hanging thee
Gent. 'Tis true (my Lords) he did
Lear. Did I not fellow?
I haue seene the day, with my good biting Faulchion
I would haue made him skip: I am old now,
And these same crosses spoile me. Who are you?
Mine eyes are not o'th' best, Ile tell you straight
Kent. If Fortune brag of two, she lou'd and hated,
One of them we behold
Lear. This is a dull sight, are you not Kent?
Kent. The same: your Seruant Kent,
Where is your Seruant Caius?
Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that,
He'le strike and quickly too, he's dead and rotten
Kent. No my good Lord, I am the very man
Lear. Ile see that straight
Kent. That from your first of difference and decay,
Haue follow'd your sad steps
Lear. You are welcome hither
Kent. Nor no man else:
All's cheerlesse, darke, and deadly,
Your eldest Daughters haue fore-done themselues,
And desperately are dead
Lear. I so I thinke
Alb. He knowes not what he saies, and vaine is it
That we present vs to him.
Enter a Messenger.
Edg. Very bootlesse
Mess. Edmund is dead my Lord
Alb. That's but a trifle heere:
You Lords and Noble Friends, know our intent,
What comfort to this great decay may come,
Shall be appli'd. For vs we will resigne,
During the life of this old Maiesty
To him our absolute power, you to your rights,
With boote, and such addition as your Honours
Haue more then merited. All Friends shall
Taste the wages of their vertue, and all Foes
The cup of their deseruings: O see, see
Lear. And my poore Foole is hang'd: no, no, no life?
Why should a Dog, a Horse, a Rat haue life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer.
Pray you vndo this Button. Thanke you Sir,
Do you see this? Looke on her? Looke her lips,
Looke there, looke there.
He dies.
Edg. He faints, my Lord, my Lord
Kent. Breake heart, I prythee breake
Edg. Looke vp my Lord
Kent. Vex not his ghost, O let him passe, he hates him,
That would vpon the wracke of this tough world
Stretch him out longer
Edg. He is gon indeed
Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long,
He but vsurpt his life
Alb. Beare them from hence, our present businesse
Is generall woe: Friends of my soule, you twaine,
Rule in this Realme, and the gor'd state sustaine
Kent. I haue a iourney Sir, shortly to go,
My Master calls me, I must not say no
Edg. The waight of this sad time we must obey,
Speake what we feele, not what we ought to say:
The oldest hath borne most, we that are yong,
Shall neuer see so much, nor liue so long.
Exeunt. with a dead March.
FINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF KING LEAR.
| Lear and Cordelia are led in as prisoners. Edmund is their jailor. They are led away to prison and Edmund gives the officer in charge his orders that are to be followed immediately. Edmund is joined by Albany, Goneril and Regan. Albany demands that Lear and Cordelia be put into his custody, but Edmund refuses. Albany then orders that Edmund and Goneril be arrested for treason. They are charged with conspiracy for plotting Albany's death. Edgar enters still in disguise and he makes a statement denouncing Edmund. The two brothers fight and Edmund falls. Albany reveals the contents of the letter given to him by Edgar and Goneril flees. Edmund admits his villainy and Edgar reveals his identity and recounts the recent events with his father. Edgar had revealed his identity to Gloucester, but he suffered a heart attack and died. The part that Kent has played in the events is also revealed. A gentleman enters with the news that Goneril has killed herself after she had poisoned her sister Regan, who is also dead. Albany realizes that Edmund and Goneril planned to have Lear and Cordelia murdered, but he is too late to act. Lear enters carrying his dead daughter in his arms. She had been hanged. This last tragedy for the King is too much and he dies, covering his daughter's body with his own. Albany, Kent and Edgar are left to restore the Kingdom. Kent indicates that he too does not have long to live. Edgar closes the play, "The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long." | summary |
Scena Tertia.
Enter in conquest with Drum and Colours, Edmund, Lear, and
Cordelia, as
prisoners, Souldiers, Captaine.
Bast. Some Officers take them away: good guard,
Vntill their greater pleasures first be knowne
That are to censure them
Cor. We are not the first,
Who with best meaning haue incurr'd the worst:
For thee oppressed King I am cast downe,
My selfe could else out-frowne false Fortunes frowne.
Shall we not see these Daughters, and these Sisters?
Lear. No, no, no, no: come let's away to prison,
We two alone will sing like Birds i'th' Cage:
When thou dost aske me blessing, Ile kneele downe
And aske of thee forgiuenesse: So wee'l liue,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded Butterflies: and heere (poore Rogues)
Talke of Court newes, and wee'l talke with them too,
Who looses, and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take vpon's the mystery of things,
As if we were Gods spies: And wee'l weare out
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebbe and flow by th' Moone
Bast. Take them away
Lear. Vpon such sacrifices my Cordelia,
The Gods themselues throw Incense.
Haue I caught thee?
He that parts vs, shall bring a Brand from Heauen,
And fire vs hence, like Foxes: wipe thine eyes,
The good yeares shall deuoure them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make vs weepe?
Weele see 'em staru'd first: come.
Enter.
Bast. Come hither Captaine, hearke.
Take thou this note, go follow them to prison,
One step I haue aduanc'd thee, if thou do'st
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way
To Noble Fortunes: know thou this, that men
Are as the time is; to be tender minded
Do's not become a Sword, thy great imployment
Will not beare question: either say thou'lt do't,
Or thriue by other meanes
Capt. Ile do't my Lord
Bast. About it, and write happy, when th'hast done,
Marke I say instantly, and carry it so
As I haue set it downe.
Exit Captaine.
Flourish. Enter Albany, Gonerill, Regan, Soldiers.
Alb. Sir, you haue shew'd to day your valiant straine
And Fortune led you well: you haue the Captiues
Who were the opposites of this dayes strife:
I do require them of you so to vse them,
As we shall find their merites, and our safety
May equally determine
Bast. Sir, I thought it fit,
To send the old and miserable King to some retention,
Whose age had Charmes in it, whose Title more,
To plucke the common bosome on his side,
And turne our imprest Launces in our eies
Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen:
My reason all the same, and they are ready
To morrow, or at further space, t' appeare
Where you shall hold your Session
Alb. Sir, by your patience,
I hold you but a subiect of this Warre,
Not as a Brother
Reg. That's as we list to grace him.
Methinkes our pleasure might haue bin demanded
Ere you had spoke so farre. He led our Powers,
Bore the Commission of my place and person,
The which immediacie may well stand vp,
And call it selfe your Brother
Gon. Not so hot:
In his owne grace he doth exalt himselfe,
More then in your addition
Reg. In my rights,
By me inuested, he compeeres the best
Alb. That were the most, if he should husband you
Reg. Iesters do oft proue Prophets
Gon. Hola, hola,
That eye that told you so, look'd but a squint
Rega. Lady I am not well, else I should answere
From a full flowing stomack. Generall,
Take thou my Souldiers, prisoners, patrimony,
Dispose of them, of me, the walls is thine:
Witnesse the world, that I create thee heere
My Lord, and Master
Gon. Meane you to enioy him?
Alb. The let alone lies not in your good will
Bast. Nor in thine Lord
Alb. Halfe-blooded fellow, yes
Reg. Let the Drum strike, and proue my title thine
Alb. Stay yet, heare reason: Edmund, I arrest thee
On capitall Treason; and in thy arrest,
This guilded Serpent: for your claime faire Sisters,
I bare it in the interest of my wife,
'Tis she is sub-contracted to this Lord,
And I her husband contradict your Banes.
If you will marry, make your loues to me,
My Lady is bespoke
Gon. An enterlude
Alb. Thou art armed Gloster,
Let the Trumpet sound:
If none appeare to proue vpon thy person,
Thy heynous, manifest, and many Treasons,
There is my pledge: Ile make it on thy heart
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing lesse
Then I haue heere proclaim'd thee
Reg. Sicke, O sicke
Gon. If not, Ile nere trust medicine
Bast. There's my exchange, what in the world hes
That names me Traitor, villain-like he lies,
Call by the Trumpet: he that dares approach;
On him, on you, who not, I will maintaine
My truth and honor firmely.
Enter a Herald.
Alb. A Herald, ho.
Trust to thy single vertue, for thy Souldiers
All leuied in my name, haue in my name
Tooke their discharge
Regan. My sicknesse growes vpon me
Alb. She is not well, conuey her to my Tent.
Come hither Herald, let the Trumpet sound,
And read out this.
A Trumpet sounds.
Herald reads.
If any man of qualitie or degree, within the lists of the Army,
will maintaine vpon Edmund, supposed Earle of Gloster,
that he is a manifold Traitor, let him appeare by the third
sound of the Trumpet: he is bold in his defence.
1 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
2 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
3 Trumpet.
Trumpet answers within.
Enter Edgar armed.
Alb. Aske him his purposes, why he appeares
Vpon this Call o'th' Trumpet
Her. What are you?
Your name, your quality, and why you answer
This present Summons?
Edg. Know my name is lost
By Treasons tooth: bare-gnawne, and Canker-bit,
Yet am I Noble as the Aduersary
I come to cope
Alb. Which is that Aduersary?
Edg. What's he that speakes for Edmund Earle of Gloster?
Bast. Himselfe, what saist thou to him?
Edg. Draw thy Sword,
That if my speech offend a Noble heart,
Thy arme may do thee Iustice, heere is mine:
Behold it is my priuiledge,
The priuiledge of mine Honours,
My oath, and my profession. I protest,
Maugre thy strength, place, youth, and eminence,
Despise thy victor-Sword, and fire new Fortune,
Thy valor, and thy heart, thou art a Traitor:
False to thy Gods, thy Brother, and thy Father,
Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious Prince,
And from th' extremest vpward of thy head,
To the discent and dust below thy foote,
A most Toad-spotted Traitor. Say thou no,
This Sword, this arme, and my best spirits are bent
To proue vpon thy heart, where to I speake,
Thou lyest
Bast. In wisedome I should aske thy name,
But since thy out-side lookes so faire and Warlike,
And that thy tongue (some say) of breeding breathes,
What safe, and nicely I might well delay,
By rule of Knight-hood, I disdaine and spurne:
Backe do I tosse these Treasons to thy head,
With the hell-hated Lye, ore-whelme thy heart,
Which for they yet glance by, and scarcely bruise,
This Sword of mine shall giue them instant way,
Where they shall rest for euer. Trumpets speake
Alb. Saue him, saue him.
Alarums. Fights.
Gon. This is practise Gloster,
By th' law of Warre, thou wast not bound to answer
An vnknowne opposite: thou art not vanquish'd,
But cozend, and beguild
Alb. Shut your mouth Dame,
Or with this paper shall I stop it: hold Sir,
Thou worse then any name, reade thine owne euill:
No tearing Lady, I perceiue you know it
Gon. Say if I do, the Lawes are mine not thine,
Who can araigne me for't?
Enter.
Alb. Most monstrous! O, know'st thou this paper?
Bast. Aske me not what I know
Alb. Go after her, she's desperate, gouerne her
Bast. What you haue charg'd me with,
That haue I done,
And more, much more, the time will bring it out.
'Tis past, and so am I: But what art thou
That hast this Fortune on me? If thou'rt Noble,
I do forgiue thee
Edg. Let's exchange charity:
I am no lesse in blood then thou art Edmond,
If more, the more th'hast wrong'd me.
My name is Edgar and thy Fathers Sonne,
The Gods are iust, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague vs:
The darke and vitious place where thee he got,
Cost him his eyes
Bast. Th'hast spoken right, 'tis true,
The Wheele is come full circle, I am heere
Alb. Me thought thy very gate did prophesie
A Royall Noblenesse: I must embrace thee,
Let sorrow split my heart, if euer I
Did hate thee, or thy Father
Edg. Worthy Prince I know't
Alb. Where haue you hid your selfe?
How haue you knowne the miseries of your Father?
Edg. By nursing them my Lord. List a breefe tale,
And when 'tis told, O that my heart would burst.
The bloody proclamation to escape
That follow'd me so neere, (O our liues sweetnesse,
That we the paine of death would hourely dye,
Rather then die at once) taught me to shift
Into a mad-mans rags, t' assume a semblance
That very Dogges disdain'd: and in this habit
Met I my Father with his bleeding Rings,
Their precious Stones new lost: became his guide,
Led him, begg'd for him, sau'd him from dispaire.
Neuer (O fault) reueal'd my selfe vnto him,
Vntill some halfe houre past when I was arm'd,
Not sure, though hoping of this good successe,
I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last
Told him our pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart
(Alacke too weake the conflict to support)
Twixt two extremes of passion, ioy and greefe,
Burst smilingly
Bast. This speech of yours hath mou'd me,
And shall perchance do good, but speake you on,
You looke as you had something more to say
Alb. If there be more, more wofull, hold it in,
For I am almost ready to dissolue,
Hearing of this.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gen. Helpe, helpe: O helpe
Edg. What kinde of helpe?
Alb. Speake man
Edg. What meanes this bloody Knife?
Gen. 'Tis hot, it smoakes, it came euen from the heart
of- O she's dead
Alb. Who dead? Speake man
Gen. Your Lady Sir, your Lady; and her Sister
By her is poyson'd: she confesses it
Bast. I was contracted to them both, all three
Now marry in an instant
Edg. Here comes Kent.
Enter Kent.
Alb. Produce the bodies, be they aliue or dead;
Gonerill and Regans bodies brought out.
This iudgement of the Heauens that makes vs tremble.
Touches vs not with pitty: O, is this he?
The time will not allow the complement
Which very manners vrges
Kent. I am come
To bid my King and Master aye good night.
Is he not here?
Alb. Great thing of vs forgot,
Speake Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia?
Seest thou this obiect Kent?
Kent. Alacke, why thus?
Bast. Yet Edmund was belou'd:
The one the other poison'd for my sake,
And after slew herselfe
Alb. Euen so: couer their faces
Bast. I pant for life: some good I meane to do
Despight of mine owne Nature. Quickly send,
(Be briefe in it) to'th' Castle, for my Writ
Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia:
Nay, send in time
Alb. Run, run, O run
Edg. To who my Lord? Who ha's the Office?
Send thy token of repreeue
Bast. Well thought on, take my Sword,
Giue it the Captaine
Edg. Hast thee for thy life
Bast. He hath Commission from thy Wife and me,
To hang Cordelia in the prison, and
To lay the blame vpon her owne dispaire,
That she for-did her selfe
Alb. The Gods defend her, beare him hence awhile.
Enter Lear with Cordelia in his armes.
Lear. Howle, howle, howle: O you are men of stones,
Had I your tongues and eyes, Il'd vse them so,
That Heauens vault should crack: she's gone for euer.
I know when one is dead, and when one liues,
She's dead as earth: Lend me a Looking-glasse,
If that her breath will mist or staine the stone,
Why then she liues
Kent. Is this the promis'd end?
Edg. Or image of that horror
Alb. Fall and cease
Lear. This feather stirs, she liues: if it be so,
It is a chance which do's redeeme all sorrowes
That euer I haue felt
Kent. O my good Master
Lear. Prythee away
Edg. 'Tis Noble Kent your Friend
Lear. A plague vpon you Murderors, Traitors all,
I might haue sau'd her, now she's gone for euer:
Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha:
What is't thou saist? Her voice was euer soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the Slaue that was a hanging thee
Gent. 'Tis true (my Lords) he did
Lear. Did I not fellow?
I haue seene the day, with my good biting Faulchion
I would haue made him skip: I am old now,
And these same crosses spoile me. Who are you?
Mine eyes are not o'th' best, Ile tell you straight
Kent. If Fortune brag of two, she lou'd and hated,
One of them we behold
Lear. This is a dull sight, are you not Kent?
Kent. The same: your Seruant Kent,
Where is your Seruant Caius?
Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that,
He'le strike and quickly too, he's dead and rotten
Kent. No my good Lord, I am the very man
Lear. Ile see that straight
Kent. That from your first of difference and decay,
Haue follow'd your sad steps
Lear. You are welcome hither
Kent. Nor no man else:
All's cheerlesse, darke, and deadly,
Your eldest Daughters haue fore-done themselues,
And desperately are dead
Lear. I so I thinke
Alb. He knowes not what he saies, and vaine is it
That we present vs to him.
Enter a Messenger.
Edg. Very bootlesse
Mess. Edmund is dead my Lord
Alb. That's but a trifle heere:
You Lords and Noble Friends, know our intent,
What comfort to this great decay may come,
Shall be appli'd. For vs we will resigne,
During the life of this old Maiesty
To him our absolute power, you to your rights,
With boote, and such addition as your Honours
Haue more then merited. All Friends shall
Taste the wages of their vertue, and all Foes
The cup of their deseruings: O see, see
Lear. And my poore Foole is hang'd: no, no, no life?
Why should a Dog, a Horse, a Rat haue life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer.
Pray you vndo this Button. Thanke you Sir,
Do you see this? Looke on her? Looke her lips,
Looke there, looke there.
He dies.
Edg. He faints, my Lord, my Lord
Kent. Breake heart, I prythee breake
Edg. Looke vp my Lord
Kent. Vex not his ghost, O let him passe, he hates him,
That would vpon the wracke of this tough world
Stretch him out longer
Edg. He is gon indeed
Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long,
He but vsurpt his life
Alb. Beare them from hence, our present businesse
Is generall woe: Friends of my soule, you twaine,
Rule in this Realme, and the gor'd state sustaine
Kent. I haue a iourney Sir, shortly to go,
My Master calls me, I must not say no
Edg. The waight of this sad time we must obey,
Speake what we feele, not what we ought to say:
The oldest hath borne most, we that are yong,
Shall neuer see so much, nor liue so long.
Exeunt. with a dead March.
FINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF KING LEAR.
| Interpretation The final scene brings both plots in the play to their conclusion. Lear and Cordelia are prisoners of the evil Edmund. As they are led away to the cells, Edmund passes orders to the jailor that they are to be executed. Lear's only wish is to be with his daughter. What the evil Edmund orders the officer to do is to make Cordelia's death look like suicide. The efforts Lear makes to save his daughter can only be imagined, but they result in his death soon after Cordelia's. In this final scene we also witness the final transformation in Albany's character, which has grown at the same pace as the evil in his wife, Regan and Cornwall. At the end, Albany has that air of authority and takes full control at the battle's conclusion. He has been forewarned of his wife's treachery through the letter he received from Edgar. Edgar is also present to support Albany and confront his brother, whom he mortally wounds. Again there are similarities to 'Hamlet', which also ended in a duel. The difference is that in Hamlet it was staged as sport, but this duel is for real and of course it symbolizes the battle between good and evil. Paradoxically it was Edmund's attempt to be noble that led to his downfall. He could quite easily have avoided a duel with his brother, but deep down he wished to obtain his goal through honorable means at the very end. He agrees to fight the duel not knowing that it is his brother. He could have easily refused to fight with an unidentified stranger. At the last, Edmund does repent his evil actions and tries to rescind his orders to execute Cordelia and Lear, in stark contrast to Iago in Shakespeare's 'Othello'. As previously prophesized in the play, Goneril and Regan are consumed by the evil they helped generate. Shakespeare introduces another element of irony through the death of Goneril. Although there have been attempts at suicide and fake suicides throughout the play, the only actual suicide is Goneril's, who appeared as such a strong individual at the start of the play. The audience is left in a quandary concerning the role of divine justice in the play because of the death of Cordelia, who had previously been likened to an angel by her father. This ending has been controversial over the centuries since the play was first performed. Some productions have altered the ending in order to ease the tragic element of the play, but Shakespeare never intended this play to be other than the greatest tragedy of the English language. The audience should leave the theatre with pain arising from Cordelia's death. One can justify the deaths of Gloucester and Lear because they have made errors of judgement, but Cordelia was young and innocent. She shared this position with Edgar, the other pure character in the plot. Her death causes an immediate relapse for Lear who is lost in madness before he dies. In my view, Shakespeare deliberately decided to make this the greatest tragedy, and the play should not be viewed in isolation. Shakespeare has provided us with alternative endings in his other tragedies. 'King Lear' should not be interfered with and as well as being the greatest tragedy, the role of King Lear poses the greatest challenge for the acting profession. The closing scene provides us with a set littered with bodies, some who have deserved death, and others are innocent victims. The whole Lear dynasty has been destroyed. Those that are left have the task of picking up the pieces. The noblest figure in the play left standing closes it with words that are self-explanatory. | analysis |
Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmond.
Kent. I thought the King had more affected the
Duke of Albany, then Cornwall
Glou. It did alwayes seeme so to vs: But
now in the diuision of the Kingdome, it appeares
not which of the Dukes hee valewes
most, for qualities are so weigh'd, that curiosity in neither,
can make choise of eithers moity
Kent. Is not this your Son, my Lord?
Glou. His breeding Sir, hath bin at my charge. I haue
so often blush'd to acknowledge him, that now I am
braz'd too't
Kent. I cannot conceiue you
Glou. Sir, this yong Fellowes mother could; wherevpon
she grew round womb'd, and had indeede (Sir) a
Sonne for her Cradle, ere she had a husband for her bed.
Do you smell a fault?
Kent. I cannot wish the fault vndone, the issue of it,
being so proper
Glou. But I haue a Sonne, Sir, by order of Law, some
yeere elder then this; who, yet is no deerer in my account,
though this Knaue came somthing sawcily to the
world before he was sent for: yet was his Mother fayre,
there was good sport at his making, and the horson must
be acknowledged. Doe you know this Noble Gentleman,
Edmond?
Edm. No, my Lord
Glou. My Lord of Kent:
Remember him heereafter, as my Honourable Friend
Edm. My seruices to your Lordship
Kent. I must loue you, and sue to know you better
Edm. Sir, I shall study deseruing
Glou. He hath bin out nine yeares, and away he shall
againe. The King is comming.
Sennet. Enter King Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Gonerill, Regan,
Cordelia, and
attendants.
Lear. Attend the Lords of France & Burgundy, Gloster
Glou. I shall, my Lord.
Enter.
Lear. Meane time we shal expresse our darker purpose.
Giue me the Map there. Know, that we haue diuided
In three our Kingdome: and 'tis our fast intent,
To shake all Cares and Businesse from our Age,
Conferring them on yonger strengths, while we
Vnburthen'd crawle toward death. Our son of Cornwal,
And you our no lesse louing Sonne of Albany,
We haue this houre a constant will to publish
Our daughters seuerall Dowers, that future strife
May be preuented now. The Princes, France & Burgundy,
Great Riuals in our yongest daughters loue,
Long in our Court, haue made their amorous soiourne,
And heere are to be answer'd. Tell me my daughters
(Since now we will diuest vs both of Rule,
Interest of Territory, Cares of State)
Which of you shall we say doth loue vs most,
That we, our largest bountie may extend
Where Nature doth with merit challenge. Gonerill,
Our eldest borne, speake first
Gon. Sir, I loue you more then word can weild y matter,
Deerer then eye-sight, space, and libertie,
Beyond what can be valewed, rich or rare,
No lesse then life, with grace, health, beauty, honor:
As much as Childe ere lou'd, or Father found.
A loue that makes breath poore, and speech vnable,
Beyond all manner of so much I loue you
Cor. What shall Cordelia speake? Loue, and be silent
Lear. Of all these bounds euen from this Line, to this,
With shadowie Forrests, and with Champains rich'd
With plenteous Riuers, and wide-skirted Meades
We make thee Lady. To thine and Albanies issues
Be this perpetuall. What sayes our second Daughter?
Our deerest Regan, wife of Cornwall?
Reg. I am made of that selfe-mettle as my Sister,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart,
I finde she names my very deede of loue:
Onely she comes too short, that I professe
My selfe an enemy to all other ioyes,
Which the most precious square of sense professes,
And finde I am alone felicitate
In your deere Highnesse loue
Cor. Then poore Cordelia,
And yet not so, since I am sure my loue's
More ponderous then my tongue
Lear. To thee, and thine hereditarie euer,
Remaine this ample third of our faire Kingdome,
No lesse in space, validitie, and pleasure
Then that conferr'd on Gonerill. Now our Ioy,
Although our last and least; to whose yong loue,
The Vines of France, and Milke of Burgundie,
Striue to be interest. What can you say, to draw
A third, more opilent then your Sisters? speake
Cor. Nothing my Lord
Lear. Nothing?
Cor. Nothing
Lear. Nothing will come of nothing, speake againe
Cor. Vnhappie that I am, I cannot heaue
My heart into my mouth: I loue your Maiesty
According to my bond, no more nor lesse
Lear. How, how Cordelia? Mend your speech a little,
Least you may marre your Fortunes
Cor. Good my Lord,
You haue begot me, bred me, lou'd me.
I returne those duties backe as are right fit,
Obey you, Loue you, and most Honour you.
Why haue my Sisters Husbands, if they say
They loue you all? Happily when I shall wed,
That Lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry
Halfe my loue with him, halfe my Care, and Dutie,
Sure I shall neuer marry like my Sisters
Lear. But goes thy heart with this?
Cor. I my good Lord
Lear. So young, and so vntender?
Cor. So young my Lord, and true
Lear. Let it be so, thy truth then be thy dowre:
For by the sacred radience of the Sunne,
The misteries of Heccat and the night:
By all the operation of the Orbes,
From whom we do exist, and cease to be,
Heere I disclaime all my Paternall care,
Propinquity and property of blood,
And as a stranger to my heart and me,
Hold thee from this for euer. The barbarous Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosome
Be as well neighbour'd, pittied, and releeu'd,
As thou my sometime Daughter
Kent. Good my Liege
Lear. Peace Kent,
Come not betweene the Dragon and his wrath,
I lou'd her most, and thought to set my rest
On her kind nursery. Hence and avoid my sight:
So be my graue my peace, as here I giue
Her Fathers heart from her; call France, who stirres?
Call Burgundy, Cornwall, and Albanie,
With my two Daughters Dowres, digest the third,
Let pride, which she cals plainnesse, marry her:
I doe inuest you ioyntly with my power,
Preheminence, and all the large effects
That troope with Maiesty. Our selfe by Monthly course,
With reseruation of an hundred Knights,
By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode
Make with you by due turne, onely we shall retaine
The name, and all th' addition to a King: the Sway,
Reuennew, Execution of the rest,
Beloued Sonnes be yours, which to confirme,
This Coronet part betweene you
Kent. Royall Lear,
Whom I haue euer honor'd as my King,
Lou'd as my Father, as my Master follow'd,
As my great Patron thought on in my praiers
Le. The bow is bent & drawne, make from the shaft
Kent. Let it fall rather, though the forke inuade
The region of my heart, be Kent vnmannerly,
When Lear is mad, what wouldest thou do old man?
Think'st thou that dutie shall haue dread to speake,
When power to flattery bowes?
To plainnesse honour's bound,
When Maiesty falls to folly, reserue thy state,
And in thy best consideration checke
This hideous rashnesse, answere my life, my iudgement:
Thy yongest Daughter do's not loue thee least,
Nor are those empty hearted, whose low sounds
Reuerbe no hollownesse
Lear. Kent, on thy life no more
Kent. My life I neuer held but as pawne
To wage against thine enemies, nere feare to loose it,
Thy safety being motiue
Lear. Out of my sight
Kent. See better Lear, and let me still remaine
The true blanke of thine eie
Lear. Now by Apollo,
Kent. Now by Apollo, King
Thou swear'st thy Gods in vaine
Lear. O Vassall! Miscreant
Alb. Cor. Deare Sir forbeare
Kent. Kill thy Physition, and thy fee bestow
Vpon the foule disease, reuoke thy guift,
Or whil'st I can vent clamour from my throate,
Ile tell thee thou dost euill
Lea. Heare me recreant, on thine allegeance heare me;
That thou hast sought to make vs breake our vowes,
Which we durst neuer yet; and with strain'd pride,
To come betwixt our sentences, and our power,
Which, nor our nature, nor our place can beare;
Our potencie made good, take thy reward.
Fiue dayes we do allot thee for prouision,
To shield thee from disasters of the world,
And on the sixt to turne thy hated backe
Vpon our kingdome: if on the tenth day following,
Thy banisht trunke be found in our Dominions,
The moment is thy death, away. By Iupiter,
This shall not be reuok'd,
Kent. Fare thee well King, sith thus thou wilt appeare,
Freedome liues hence, and banishment is here;
The Gods to their deere shelter take thee Maid,
That iustly think'st, and hast most rightly said:
And your large speeches, may your deeds approue,
That good effects may spring from words of loue:
Thus Kent, O Princes, bids you all adew,
Hee'l shape his old course, in a Country new.
Enter.
Flourish. Enter Gloster with France, and Burgundy, Attendants.
Cor. Heere's France and Burgundy, my Noble Lord
Lear. My Lord of Burgundie,
We first addresse toward you, who with this King
Hath riuald for our Daughter; what in the least
Will you require in present Dower with her,
Or cease your quest of Loue?
Bur. Most Royall Maiesty,
I craue no more then hath your Highnesse offer'd,
Nor will you tender lesse?
Lear. Right Noble Burgundy,
When she was deare to vs, we did hold her so,
But now her price is fallen: Sir, there she stands,
If ought within that little seeming substance,
Or all of it with our displeasure piec'd,
And nothing more may fitly like your Grace,
Shee's there, and she is yours
Bur. I know no answer
Lear. Will you with those infirmities she owes,
Vnfriended, new adopted to our hate,
Dow'rd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath,
Take her or, leaue her
Bur. Pardon me Royall Sir,
Election makes not vp in such conditions
Le. Then leaue her sir, for by the powre that made me,
I tell you all her wealth. For you great King,
I would not from your loue make such a stray,
To match you where I hate, therefore beseech you
T' auert your liking a more worthier way,
Then on a wretch whom Nature is asham'd
Almost t' acknowledge hers
Fra. This is most strange,
That she whom euen but now, was your obiect,
The argument of your praise, balme of your age,
The best, the deerest, should in this trice of time
Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle
So many folds of fauour: sure her offence
Must be of such vnnaturall degree,
That monsters it: Or your fore-voucht affection
Fall into taint, which to beleeue of her
Must be a faith that reason without miracle
Should neuer plant in me
Cor. I yet beseech your Maiesty.
If for I want that glib and oylie Art,
To speake and purpose not, since what I will intend,
Ile do't before I speake, that you make knowne
It is no vicious blot, murther, or foulenesse,
No vnchaste action or dishonoured step
That hath depriu'd me of your Grace and fauour,
But euen for want of that, for which I am richer,
A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue,
That I am glad I haue not, though not to haue it,
Hath lost me in your liking
Lear. Better thou had'st
Not beene borne, then not t'haue pleas'd me better
Fra. Is it but this? A tardinesse in nature,
Which often leaues the history vnspoke
That it intends to do: my Lord of Burgundy,
What say you to the Lady? Loue's not loue
When it is mingled with regards, that stands
Aloofe from th' intire point, will you haue her?
She is herselfe a Dowrie
Bur. Royall King,
Giue but that portion which your selfe propos'd,
And here I take Cordelia by the hand,
Dutchesse of Burgundie
Lear. Nothing, I haue sworne, I am firme
Bur. I am sorry then you haue so lost a Father,
That you must loose a husband
Cor. Peace be with Burgundie,
Since that respect and Fortunes are his loue,
I shall not be his wife
Fra. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poore,
Most choise forsaken, and most lou'd despis'd,
Thee and thy vertues here I seize vpon,
Be it lawfull I take vp what's cast away.
Gods, Gods! 'Tis strange, that from their cold'st neglect
My Loue should kindle to enflam'd respect.
Thy dowrelesse Daughter King, throwne to my chance,
Is Queene of vs, of ours, and our faire France:
Not all the Dukes of watrish Burgundy,
Can buy this vnpriz'd precious Maid of me.
Bid them farewell Cordelia, though vnkinde,
Thou loosest here a better where to finde
Lear. Thou hast her France, let her be thine, for we
Haue no such Daughter, nor shall euer see
That face of hers againe, therfore be gone,
Without our Grace, our Loue, our Benizon:
Come Noble Burgundie.
Flourish. Exeunt.
Fra. Bid farwell to your Sisters
Cor. The Iewels of our Father, with wash'd eies
Cordelia leaues you, I know you what you are,
And like a Sister am most loth to call
Your faults as they are named. Loue well our Father:
To your professed bosomes I commit him,
But yet alas, stood I within his Grace,
I would prefer him to a better place,
So farewell to you both
Regn. Prescribe not vs our dutie
Gon. Let your study
Be to content your Lord, who hath receiu'd you
At Fortunes almes, you haue obedience scanted,
And well are worth the want that you haue wanted
Cor. Time shall vnfold what plighted cunning hides,
Who couers faults, at last with shame derides:
Well may you prosper
Fra. Come my faire Cordelia.
Exit France and Cor.
Gon. Sister, it is not little I haue to say,
Of what most neerely appertaines to vs both,
I thinke our Father will hence to night
Reg. That's most certaine, and with you: next moneth with vs
Gon. You see how full of changes his age is, the obseruation
we haue made of it hath beene little; he alwaies
lou'd our Sister most, and with what poore iudgement he
hath now cast her off, appeares too grossely
Reg. 'Tis the infirmity of his age, yet he hath euer but
slenderly knowne himselfe
Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath bin but
rash, then must we looke from his age, to receiue not alone
the imperfections of long ingraffed condition, but
therewithall the vnruly way-wardnesse, that infirme and
cholericke yeares bring with them
Reg. Such vnconstant starts are we like to haue from
him, as this of Kents banishment
Gon. There is further complement of leaue-taking betweene
France and him, pray you let vs sit together, if our
Father carry authority with such disposition as he beares,
this last surrender of his will but offend vs
Reg. We shall further thinke of it
Gon. We must do something, and i'th' heate.
Exeunt.
| King Lear in his old age decides it is time to divide up his kingdom among his daughters. In order to decide how much each girl and her husband gets, he makes them each publicly declare their love. The oldest daughter Goneril has no problem doing this, nor does his middle daughter Regan. His youngest and favorite daughter, Cordelia, however, does not approve of the exercise and refuses to speak the words he longs to here. Because of her refusal, he disowns her, and because she is not married, he gives her no dowry. The portion he intended to give to her he divides instead between her sisters. The Earl of Kent stands up for Cordelia and is banished by the King for doing so. The King calls Cordelia's main suitors and asks if they will take her without her dowry. The Duke of Burgundy refuses, but the King of France wants to marry her anyway. The King of France takes her away, and King Lear tells his other daughters that he will alternate living with them | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Bastard.
Bast. Thou Nature art my Goddesse, to thy Law
My seruices are bound, wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custome, and permit
The curiosity of Nations, to depriue me?
For that I am some twelue, or fourteene Moonshines
Lag of a Brother? Why Bastard? Wherefore base?
When my Dimensions are as well compact,
My minde as generous, and my shape as true
As honest Madams issue? Why brand they vs
With Base? With basenes Bastardie? Base, Base?
Who in the lustie stealth of Nature, take
More composition, and fierce qualitie,
Then doth within a dull stale tyred bed
Goe to th' creating a whole tribe of Fops
Got 'tweene a sleepe, and wake? Well then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must haue your land,
Our Fathers loue, is to the Bastard Edmond,
As to th' legitimate: fine word: Legitimate.
Well, my Legittimate, if this Letter speed,
And my inuention thriue, Edmond the base
Shall to'th' Legitimate: I grow, I prosper:
Now Gods, stand vp for Bastards.
Enter Gloucester.
Glo. Kent banish'd thus? and France in choller parted?
And the King gone to night? Prescrib'd his powre,
Confin'd to exhibition? All this done
Vpon the gad? Edmond, how now? What newes?
Bast. So please your Lordship, none
Glou. Why so earnestly seeke you to put vp y Letter?
Bast. I know no newes, my Lord
Glou. What Paper were you reading?
Bast. Nothing my Lord
Glou. No? what needed then that terrible dispatch of
it into your Pocket? The quality of nothing, hath not
such neede to hide it selfe. Let's see: come, if it bee nothing,
I shall not neede Spectacles
Bast. I beseech you Sir, pardon mee; it is a Letter
from my Brother, that I haue not all ore-read; and for so
much as I haue perus'd, I finde it not fit for your ore-looking
Glou. Giue me the Letter, Sir
Bast. I shall offend, either to detaine, or giue it:
The Contents, as in part I vnderstand them,
Are too blame
Glou. Let's see, let's see
Bast. I hope for my Brothers iustification, hee wrote
this but as an essay, or taste of my Vertue
Glou. reads. This policie, and reuerence of Age, makes the
world bitter to the best of our times: keepes our Fortunes from
vs, till our oldnesse cannot rellish them. I begin to finde an idle
and fond bondage, in the oppression of aged tyranny, who swayes
not as it hath power, but as it is suffer'd. Come to me, that of
this I may speake more. If our Father would sleepe till I wak'd
him, you should enioy halfe his Reuennew for euer, and liue the
beloued of your Brother. Edgar.
Hum? Conspiracy? Sleepe till I wake him, you should
enioy halfe his Reuennew: my Sonne Edgar, had hee a
hand to write this? A heart and braine to breede it in?
When came you to this? Who brought it?
Bast. It was not brought mee, my Lord; there's the
cunning of it. I found it throwne in at the Casement of
my Closset
Glou. You know the character to be your Brothers?
Bast. If the matter were good my Lord, I durst swear
it were his: but in respect of that, I would faine thinke it
were not
Glou. It is his
Bast. It is his hand, my Lord: but I hope his heart is
not in the Contents
Glo. Has he neuer before sounded you in this busines?
Bast. Neuer my Lord. But I haue heard him oft maintaine
it to be fit, that Sonnes at perfect age, and Fathers
declin'd, the Father should bee as Ward to the Son, and
the Sonne manage his Reuennew
Glou. O Villain, villain: his very opinion in the Letter.
Abhorred Villaine, vnnaturall, detested, brutish
Villaine; worse then brutish: Go sirrah, seeke him: Ile
apprehend him. Abhominable Villaine, where is he?
Bast. I do not well know my L[ord]. If it shall please you to
suspend your indignation against my Brother, til you can
deriue from him better testimony of his intent, you shold
run a certaine course: where, if you violently proceed against
him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great
gap in your owne Honor, and shake in peeces, the heart of
his obedience. I dare pawne downe my life for him, that
he hath writ this to feele my affection to your Honor, &
to no other pretence of danger
Glou. Thinke you so?
Bast. If your Honor iudge it meete, I will place you
where you shall heare vs conferre of this, and by an Auricular
assurance haue your satisfaction, and that without
any further delay, then this very Euening
Glou. He cannot bee such a Monster. Edmond seeke
him out: winde me into him, I pray you: frame the Businesse
after your owne wisedome. I would vnstate my
selfe, to be in a due resolution
Bast. I will seeke him Sir, presently: conuey the businesse
as I shall find meanes, and acquaint you withall
Glou. These late Eclipses in the Sun and Moone portend
no good to vs: though the wisedome of Nature can
reason it thus, and thus, yet Nature finds it selfe scourg'd
by the sequent effects. Loue cooles, friendship falls off,
Brothers diuide. In Cities, mutinies; in Countries, discord;
in Pallaces, Treason; and the Bond crack'd, 'twixt
Sonne and Father. This villaine of mine comes vnder the
prediction; there's Son against Father, the King fals from
byas of Nature, there's Father against Childe. We haue
seene the best of our time. Machinations, hollownesse,
treacherie, and all ruinous disorders follow vs disquietly
to our Graues. Find out this Villain, Edmond, it shall lose
thee nothing, do it carefully: and the Noble & true-harted
Kent banish'd; his offence, honesty. 'Tis strange.
Exit
Bast. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that
when we are sicke in fortune, often the surfets of our own
behauiour, we make guilty of our disasters, the Sun, the
Moone, and Starres, as if we were villaines on necessitie,
Fooles by heauenly compulsion, Knaues, Theeues, and
Treachers by Sphericall predominance. Drunkards, Lyars,
and Adulterers by an inforc'd obedience of Planatary
influence; and all that we are euill in, by a diuine thrusting
on. An admirable euasion of Whore-master-man,
to lay his Goatish disposition on the charge of a Starre,
My father compounded with my mother vnder the Dragons
taile, and my Natiuity was vnder Vrsa Maior, so
that it followes, I am rough and Leacherous. I should
haue bin that I am, had the maidenlest Starre in the Firmament
twinkled on my bastardizing.
Enter Edgar.
Pat: he comes like the Catastrophe of the old Comedie:
my Cue is villanous Melancholly, with a sighe like Tom
o' Bedlam. - O these Eclipses do portend these diuisions.
Fa, Sol, La, Me
Edg. How now Brother Edmond, what serious contemplation
are you in?
Bast. I am thinking Brother of a prediction I read this
other day, what should follow these Eclipses
Edg. Do you busie your selfe with that?
Bast. I promise you, the effects he writes of, succeede
vnhappily.
When saw you my Father last?
Edg. The night gone by
Bast. Spake you with him?
Edg. I, two houres together
Bast. Parted you in good termes? Found you no displeasure
in him, by word, nor countenance?
Edg. None at all,
Bast. Bethink your selfe wherein you may haue offended
him: and at my entreaty forbeare his presence, vntill
some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure,
which at this instant so rageth in him, that with the mischiefe
of your person, it would scarsely alay
Edg. Some Villaine hath done me wrong
Edm. That's my feare, I pray you haue a continent
forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower: and as
I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will
fitly bring you to heare my Lord speake: pray ye goe,
there's my key: if you do stirre abroad, goe arm'd
Edg. Arm'd, Brother?
Edm. Brother, I aduise you to the best, I am no honest
man, if ther be any good meaning toward you: I haue told
you what I haue seene, and heard: But faintly. Nothing
like the image, and horror of it, pray you away
Edg. Shall I heare from you anon?
Enter.
Edm. I do serue you in this businesse:
A Credulous Father, and a Brother Noble,
Whose nature is so farre from doing harmes,
That he suspects none: on whose foolish honestie
My practises ride easie: I see the businesse.
Let me, if not by birth, haue lands by wit,
All with me's meete, that I can fashion fit.
Enter.
| Edmund, the bastard son of Gloucester, comes up with a plan to usurp his brother and gain his father's land and money. His father comes to him, and he quickly hides a forged letter from his brother, Edgar. Because of his strange behavior, his father asks to see the letter. He is disgusted by the treacherous content of his legitimate son, and Edmund defends his brother. He promises to help his father find the truth. After his father leaves, Edmund talks to Edgar and tells him that their father is angry with him. He tells his brother to be prepared to run and take solders with him. His brother believes him, and Edmund is happy that his plan is successful | summary |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Lear, Kent, Gentleman, and Foole.
Lear. Go you before to Gloster with these Letters;
acquaint my Daughter no further with any thing you
know, then comes from her demand out of the Letter,
if your Dilligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore
you
Kent. I will not sleepe my Lord, till I haue deliuered
your Letter.
Enter.
Foole. If a mans braines were in's heeles, wert not in
danger of kybes?
Lear. I Boy
Foole. Then I prythee be merry, thy wit shall not go
slip-shod
Lear. Ha, ha, ha
Fool. Shalt see thy other Daughter will vse thee kindly,
for though she's as like this, as a Crabbe's like an
Apple, yet I can tell what I can tell
Lear. What can'st tell Boy?
Foole. She will taste as like this as, a Crabbe do's to a
Crab: thou canst, tell why ones nose stands i'th' middle
on's face?
Lear. No
Foole. Why to keepe ones eyes of either side 's nose,
that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into
Lear. I did her wrong
Foole. Can'st tell how an Oyster makes his shell?
Lear. No
Foole. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a Snaile ha's
a house
Lear. Why?
Foole. Why to put's head in, not to giue it away to his
daughters, and leaue his hornes without a case
Lear. I will forget my Nature, so kind a Father? Be
my Horsses ready?
Foole. Thy Asses are gone about 'em; the reason why
the seuen Starres are no mo then seuen, is a pretty reason
Lear. Because they are not eight
Foole. Yes indeed, thou would'st make a good Foole
Lear. To tak't againe perforce; Monster Ingratitude!
Foole. If thou wert my Foole Nunckle, Il'd haue thee
beaten for being old before thy time
Lear. How's that?
Foole. Thou shouldst not haue bin old, till thou hadst
bin wise
Lear. O let me not be mad, not mad sweet Heauen:
keepe me in temper, I would not be mad. How now are
the Horses ready?
Gent. Ready my Lord
Lear. Come Boy
Fool. She that's a Maid now, & laughs at my departure,
Shall not be a Maid long, vnlesse things be cut shorter.
Exeunt.
| Lear sends Kent, still in disguise, ahead to his daughter Regan's house so she can prepare for his arrival. While he is gone, the Fool who is traveling with them tells the former King that he could easily be the fool. When the king asks why, the fool tells him it is because he gave away his land too soon, and made himself old before he was wise | summary |
Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
Enter Bastard, and Curan, seuerally.
Bast. Saue thee Curan
Cur. And you Sir, I haue bin
With your Father, and giuen him notice
That the Duke of Cornwall, and Regan his Duchesse
Will be here with him this night
Bast. How comes that?
Cur. Nay I know not, you haue heard of the newes abroad,
I meane the whisper'd ones, for they are yet but
ear-kissing arguments
Bast. Not I: pray you what are they?
Cur. Haue you heard of no likely Warres toward,
'Twixt the Dukes of Cornwall, and Albany?
Bast. Not a word
Cur. You may do then in time,
Fare you well Sir.
Enter.
Bast. The Duke be here to night? The better best,
This weaues it selfe perforce into my businesse,
My Father hath set guard to take my Brother,
And I haue one thing of a queazie question
Which I must act, Briefenesse, and Fortune worke.
Enter Edgar.
Brother, a word, discend; Brother I say,
My Father watches: O Sir, fly this place,
Intelligence is giuen where you are hid;
You haue now the good aduantage of the night,
Haue you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornewall?
Hee's comming hither, now i'th' night, i'th' haste,
And Regan with him, haue you nothing said
Vpon his partie 'gainst the Duke of Albany?
Aduise your selfe
Edg. I am sure on't, not a word
Bast. I heare my Father comming, pardon me:
In cunning, I must draw my Sword vpon you:
Draw, seeme to defend your selfe,
Now quit you well.
Yeeld, come before my Father, light hoa, here,
Fly Brother, Torches, Torches, so farewell.
Exit Edgar.
Some blood drawne on me, would beget opinion
Of my more fierce endeauour. I haue seene drunkards
Do more then this in sport; Father, Father,
Stop, stop, no helpe?
Enter Gloster, and Seruants with Torches.
Glo. Now Edmund, where's the villaine?
Bast. Here stood he in the dark, his sharpe Sword out,
Mumbling of wicked charmes, coniuring the Moone
To stand auspicious Mistris
Glo. But where is he?
Bast. Looke Sir, I bleed
Glo. Where is the villaine, Edmund?
Bast. Fled this way Sir, when by no meanes he could
Glo. Pursue him, ho: go after. By no meanes, what?
Bast. Perswade me to the murther of your Lordship,
But that I told him the reuenging Gods,
'Gainst Paricides did all the thunder bend,
Spoke with how manifold, and strong a Bond
The Child was bound to'th' Father; Sir in fine,
Seeing how lothly opposite I stood
To his vnnaturall purpose, in fell motion
With his prepared Sword, he charges home
My vnprouided body, latch'd mine arme;
And when he saw my best alarum'd spirits
Bold in the quarrels right, rouz'd to th' encounter,
Or whether gasted by the noyse I made,
Full sodainely he fled
Glost. Let him fly farre:
Not in this Land shall he remaine vncaught
And found; dispatch, the Noble Duke my Master,
My worthy Arch and Patron comes to night,
By his authoritie I will proclaime it,
That he which finds him shall deserue our thankes,
Bringing the murderous Coward to the stake:
He that conceales him death
Bast. When I disswaded him from his intent,
And found him pight to doe it, with curst speech
I threaten'd to discouer him; he replied,
Thou vnpossessing Bastard, dost thou thinke,
If I would stand against thee, would the reposall
Of any trust, vertue, or worth in thee
Make thy words faith'd? No, what should I denie,
(As this I would, though thou didst produce
My very Character) I'ld turne it all
To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practise:
And thou must make a dullard of the world,
If they not thought the profits of my death
Were very pregnant and potentiall spirits
To make thee seeke it.
Tucket within.
Glo. O strange and fastned Villaine,
Would he deny his Letter, said he?
Harke, the Dukes Trumpets, I know not wher he comes;
All Ports Ile barre, the villaine shall not scape,
The Duke must grant me that: besides, his picture
I will send farre and neere, that all the kingdome
May haue due note of him, and of my land,
(Loyall and naturall Boy) Ile worke the meanes
To make thee capable.
Enter Cornewall, Regan, and Attendants.
Corn. How now my Noble friend, since I came hither
(Which I can call but now,) I haue heard strangenesse
Reg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short
Which can pursue th' offender; how dost my Lord?
Glo. O Madam, my old heart is crack'd, it's crack'd
Reg. What, did my Fathers Godsonne seeke your life?
He whom my Father nam'd, your Edgar?
Glo. O Lady, Lady, shame would haue it hid
Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous Knights
That tended vpon my Father?
Glo. I know not Madam, 'tis too bad, too bad
Bast. Yes Madam, he was of that consort
Reg. No maruaile then, though he were ill affected,
'Tis they haue put him on the old mans death,
To haue th' expence and wast of his Reuenues:
I haue this present euening from my Sister
Beene well inform'd of them, and with such cautions,
That if they come to soiourne at my house,
Ile not be there
Cor. Nor I, assure thee Regan;
Edmund, I heare that you haue shewne your Father
A Child-like Office
Bast. It was my duty Sir
Glo. He did bewray his practise, and receiu'd
This hurt you see, striuing to apprehend him
Cor. Is he pursued?
Glo. I my good Lord
Cor. If he be taken, he shall neuer more
Be fear'd of doing harme, make your owne purpose,
How in my strength you please: for you Edmund,
Whose vertue and obedience doth this instant
So much commend it selfe, you shall be ours,
Nature's of such deepe trust, we shall much need:
You we first seize on
Bast. I shall serue you Sir truely, how euer else
Glo. For him I thanke your Grace
Cor. You know not why we came to visit you?
Reg. Thus out of season, thredding darke ey'd night,
Occasions Noble Gloster of some prize,
Wherein we must haue vse of your aduise.
Our Father he hath writ, so hath our Sister,
Of differences, which I best thought it fit
To answere from our home: the seuerall Messengers
From hence attend dispatch, our good old Friend,
Lay comforts to your bosome, and bestow
Your needfull counsaile to our businesses,
Which craues the instant vse
Glo. I serue you Madam,
Your Graces are right welcome.
Exeunt. Flourish.
| Edmund hears that the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall are coming to his father's house. He decides it is time to put his plan fully into effect. He tells his brother that more evidence has come up against him. When his father comes, he makes him draw his sword. At Edmunds behest, Edgar flees making him look like a traitor. Edmund has a wound in his arm, and his father commends him for his service. Gloucester sentences Edgar to death if he is captured. The Duke and Duchess arrive and hear of the happenings and commend Edmund for his bravery. They tell Gloucester that they have come to seek refuge because of conflicting letters that they have received from Regan's sister and her father. If her father comes to her castle, they do not want to be there. Gloucester swears to give them all the aid they need until they can figure out who's message to believe and what to do about it | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Kent, and Steward seuerally.
Stew. Good dawning to thee Friend, art of this house?
Kent. I
Stew. Where may we set our horses?
Kent. I'th' myre
Stew. Prythee, if thou lou'st me, tell me
Kent. I loue thee not
Ste. Why then I care not for thee
Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury Pinfold, I would make
thee care for me
Ste. Why do'st thou vse me thus? I know thee not
Kent. Fellow I know thee
Ste. What do'st thou know me for?
Kent. A Knaue, a Rascall, an eater of broken meates, a
base, proud, shallow, beggerly, three-suited-hundred
pound, filthy woosted-stocking knaue, a Lilly-liuered,
action-taking, whoreson glasse-gazing super-seruiceable
finicall Rogue, one Trunke-inheriting slaue, one that
would'st be a Baud in way of good seruice, and art nothing
but the composition of a Knaue, Begger, Coward,
Pandar, and the Sonne and Heire of a Mungrill Bitch,
one whom I will beate into clamours whining, if thou
deny'st the least sillable of thy addition
Stew. Why, what a monstrous Fellow art thou, thus
to raile on one, that is neither knowne of thee, nor
knowes thee?
Kent. What a brazen-fac'd Varlet art thou, to deny
thou knowest me? Is it two dayes since I tript vp thy
heeles, and beate thee before the King? Draw you rogue,
for though it be night, yet the Moone shines, Ile make a
sop oth' Moonshine of you, you whoreson Cullyenly
Barber-monger, draw
Stew. Away, I haue nothing to do with thee
Kent. Draw you Rascall, you come with Letters against
the King, and take Vanitie the puppets part, against
the Royaltie of her Father: draw you Rogue, or
Ile so carbonado your shanks, draw you Rascall, come
your waies
Ste. Helpe, ho, murther, helpe
Kent. Strike you slaue: stand rogue, stand you neat
slaue, strike
Stew. Helpe hoa, murther, murther.
Enter Bastard, Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Seruants.
Bast. How now, what's the matter? Part
Kent. With you goodman Boy, if you please, come,
Ile flesh ye, come on yong Master
Glo. Weapons? Armes? what's the matter here?
Cor. Keepe peace vpon your liues, he dies that strikes
againe, what is the matter?
Reg. The Messengers from our Sister, and the King?
Cor. What is your difference, speake?
Stew. I am scarce in breath my Lord
Kent. No Maruell, you haue so bestir'd your valour,
you cowardly Rascall, nature disclaimes in thee: a Taylor
made thee
Cor. Thou art a strange fellow, a Taylor make a man?
Kent. A Taylor Sir, a Stone-cutter, or a Painter, could
not haue made him so ill, though they had bin but two
yeares oth' trade
Cor. Speake yet, how grew your quarrell?
Ste. This ancient Ruffian Sir, whose life I haue spar'd
at sute of his gray-beard
Kent. Thou whoreson Zed, thou vnnecessary letter:
my Lord, if you will giue me leaue, I will tread this vnboulted
villaine into morter, and daube the wall of a
Iakes with him. Spare my gray-beard, you wagtaile?
Cor. Peace sirrah,
You beastly knaue, know you no reuerence?
Kent. Yes Sir, but anger hath a priuiledge
Cor. Why art thou angrie?
Kent. That such a slaue as this should weare a Sword,
Who weares no honesty: such smiling rogues as these,
Like Rats oft bite the holy cords a twaine,
Which are t' intrince, t' vnloose: smooth euery passion
That in the natures of their Lords rebell,
Being oile to fire, snow to the colder moodes,
Reuenge, affirme, and turne their Halcion beakes
With euery gall, and varry of their Masters,
Knowing naught (like dogges) but following:
A plague vpon your Epilepticke visage,
Smoile you my speeches, as I were a Foole?
Goose, if I had you vpon Sarum Plaine,
I'ld driue ye cackling home to Camelot
Corn. What art thou mad old Fellow?
Glost. How fell you out, say that?
Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy,
Then I, and such a knaue
Corn. Why do'st thou call him Knaue?
What is his fault?
Kent. His countenance likes me not
Cor. No more perchance do's mine, nor his, nor hers
Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plaine,
I haue seene better faces in my Time,
Then stands on any shoulder that I see
Before me, at this instant
Corn. This is some Fellow,
Who hauing beene prais'd for bluntnesse, doth affect
A saucy roughnes, and constraines the garb
Quite from his Nature. He cannot flatter he,
An honest mind and plaine, he must speake truth,
And they will take it so, if not, hee's plaine.
These kind of Knaues I know, which in this plainnesse
Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends,
Then twenty silly-ducking obseruants,
That stretch their duties nicely
Kent. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,
Vnder th' allowance of your great aspect,
Whose influence like the wreath of radient fire
On flickring Phoebus front
Corn. What mean'st by this?
Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend
so much; I know Sir, I am no flatterer, he that beguild
you in a plaine accent, was a plaine Knaue, which
for my part I will not be, though I should win your
displeasure to entreat me too't
Corn. What was th' offence you gaue him?
Ste. I neuer gaue him any:
It pleas'd the King his Master very late
To strike at me vpon his misconstruction,
When he compact, and flattering his displeasure
Tript me behind: being downe, insulted, rail'd,
And put vpon him such a deale of Man,
That worthied him, got praises of the King,
For him attempting, who was selfe-subdued,
And in the fleshment of this dead exploit,
Drew on me here againe
Kent. None of these Rogues, and Cowards
But Aiax is there Foole
Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks?
You stubborne ancient Knaue, you reuerent Bragart,
Wee'l teach you
Kent. Sir, I am too old to learne:
Call not your Stocks for me, I serue the King.
On whose imployment I was sent to you,
You shall doe small respects, show too bold malice
Against the Grace, and Person of my Master,
Stocking his Messenger
Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks;
As I haue life and Honour, there shall he sit till Noone
Reg. Till noone? till night my Lord, and all night too
Kent. Why Madam, if I were your Fathers dog,
You should not vse me so
Reg. Sir, being his Knaue, I will.
Stocks brought out.
Cor. This is a Fellow of the selfe same colour,
Our Sister speakes of. Come, bring away the Stocks
Glo. Let me beseech your Grace, not to do so,
The King his Master, needs must take it ill
That he so slightly valued in his Messenger,
Should haue him thus restrained
Cor. Ile answere that
Reg. My Sister may recieue it much more worsse,
To haue her Gentleman abus'd, assaulted
Corn. Come my Lord, away.
Enter.
Glo. I am sorry for thee friend, 'tis the Dukes pleasure,
Whose disposition all the world well knowes
Will not be rub'd nor stopt, Ile entreat for thee
Kent. Pray do not Sir, I haue watch'd and trauail'd hard,
Some time I shall sleepe out, the rest Ile whistle:
A good mans fortune may grow out at heeles:
Giue you good morrow
Glo. The Duke's too blame in this,
'Twill be ill taken.
Enter.
Kent. Good King, that must approue the common saw,
Thou out of Heauens benediction com'st
To the warme Sun.
Approach thou Beacon to this vnder Globe,
That by thy comfortable Beames I may
Peruse this Letter. Nothing almost sees miracles
But miserie. I know 'tis from Cordelia,
Who hath most fortunately beene inform'd
Of my obscured course. And shall finde time
From this enormous State, seeking to giue
Losses their remedies. All weary and o're-watch'd,
Take vantage heauie eyes, not to behold
This shamefull lodging. Fortune goodnight,
Smile once more, turne thy wheele.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. I heard my selfe proclaim'd,
And by the happy hollow of a Tree,
Escap'd the hunt. No Port is free, no place
That guard, and most vnusall vigilance
Do's not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape
I will preserue myselfe: and am bethought
To take the basest, and most poorest shape
That euer penury in contempt of man,
Brought neere to beast; my face Ile grime with filth,
Blanket my loines, else all my haires in knots,
And with presented nakednesse out-face
The Windes, and persecutions of the skie;
The Country giues me proofe, and president
Of Bedlam beggers, who with roaring voices,
Strike in their num'd and mortified Armes.
Pins, Wodden-prickes, Nayles, Sprigs of Rosemarie:
And with this horrible obiect, from low Farmes,
Poore pelting Villages, Sheeps-Coates, and Milles,
Sometimes with Lunaticke bans, sometime with Praiers
Inforce their charitie: poore Turlygod poore Tom,
That's something yet: Edgar I nothing am.
Enter.
Enter Lear, Foole, and Gentleman.
Lea. 'Tis strange that they should so depart from home,
And not send backe my Messengers
Gent. As I learn'd,
The night before, there was no purpose in them
Of this remoue
Kent. Haile to thee Noble Master
Lear. Ha? Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime?
Kent. No my Lord
Foole. Hah, ha, he weares Cruell Garters Horses are
tide by the heads, Dogges and Beares by'th' necke,
Monkies by'th' loynes, and Men by'th' legs: when a man
ouerlustie at legs, then he weares wodden nether-stocks
Lear. What's he,
That hath so much thy place mistooke
To set thee heere?
Kent. It is both he and she,
Your Son, and Daughter
Lear. No
Kent. Yes
Lear. No I say
Kent. I say yea
Lear. By Iupiter I sweare no
Kent. By Iuno, I sweare I
Lear. They durst not do't:
They could not, would not do't: 'tis worse then murther,
To do vpon respect such violent outrage:
Resolue me with all modest haste, which way
Thou might'st deserue, or they impose this vsage,
Comming from vs
Kent. My Lord, when at their home
I did commend your Highnesse Letters to them,
Ere I was risen from the place, that shewed
My dutie kneeling, came there a reeking Poste,
Stew'd in his haste, halfe breathlesse, painting forth
From Gonerill his Mistris, salutations;
Deliuer'd Letters spight of intermission,
Which presently they read; on those contents
They summon'd vp their meiney, straight tooke Horse,
Commanded me to follow, and attend
The leisure of their answer, gaue me cold lookes,
And meeting heere the other Messenger,
Whose welcome I perceiu'd had poison'd mine,
Being the very fellow which of late
Displaid so sawcily against your Highnesse,
Hauing more man then wit about me, drew;
He rais'd the house, with loud and coward cries,
Your Sonne and Daughter found this trespasse worth
The shame which heere it suffers
Foole. Winters not gon yet, if the wil'd Geese fly that way,
Fathers that weare rags, do make their Children blind,
But Fathers that beare bags, shall see their children kind.
Fortune that arrant whore, nere turns the key toth' poore.
But for all this thou shalt haue as many Dolors for thy
Daughters, as thou canst tell in a yeare
Lear. Oh how this Mother swels vp toward my heart!
Historica passio, downe thou climing sorrow,
Thy Elements below where is this Daughter?
Kent. With the Earle Sir, here within
Lear. Follow me not, stay here.
Enter.
Gen. Made you no more offence,
But what you speake of?
Kent. None:
How chance the King comes with so small a number?
Foole. And thou hadst beene set i'th' Stockes for that
question, thoud'st well deseru'd it
Kent. Why Foole?
Foole. Wee'l set thee to schoole to an Ant, to teach
thee ther's no labouring i'th' winter. All that follow their
noses, are led by their eyes, but blinde men, and there's
not a nose among twenty, but can smell him that's stinking;
let go thy hold when a great wheele runs downe a
hill, least it breake thy necke with following. But the
great one that goes vpward, let him draw thee after:
when a wiseman giues thee better counsell giue me mine
againe, I would haue none but knaues follow it, since a
Foole giues it.
That Sir, which serues and seekes for gaine,
And followes but for forme;
Will packe, when it begins to raine,
And leaue thee in the storme,
But I will tarry, the Foole will stay,
And let the wiseman flie:
The knaue turnes Foole that runnes away,
The Foole no knaue perdie.
Enter Lear, and Gloster] :
Kent. Where learn'd you this Foole?
Foole. Not i'th' Stocks Foole
Lear. Deny to speake with me?
They are sicke, they are weary,
They haue trauail'd all the night? meere fetches,
The images of reuolt and flying off.
Fetch me a better answer
Glo. My deere Lord,
You know the fiery quality of the Duke,
How vnremoueable and fixt he is
In his owne course
Lear. Vengeance, Plague, Death, Confusion:
Fiery? What quality? Why Gloster, Gloster,
I'ld speake with the Duke of Cornewall, and his wife
Glo. Well my good Lord, I haue inform'd them so
Lear. Inform'd them? Do'st thou vnderstand me man
Glo. I my good Lord
Lear. The King would speake with Cornwall,
The deere Father
Would with his Daughter speake, commands, tends, seruice,
Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood:
Fiery? The fiery Duke, tell the hot Duke that-
No, but not yet, may be he is not well,
Infirmity doth still neglect all office,
Whereto our health is bound, we are not our selues,
When Nature being opprest, commands the mind
To suffer with the body; Ile forbeare,
And am fallen out with my more headier will,
To take the indispos'd and sickly fit,
For the sound man. Death on my state: wherefore
Should he sit heere? This act perswades me,
That this remotion of the Duke and her
Is practise only. Giue me my Seruant forth;
Goe tell the Duke, and's wife, Il'd speake with them:
Now, presently: bid them come forth and heare me,
Or at their Chamber doore Ile beate the Drum,
Till it crie sleepe to death
Glo. I would haue all well betwixt you.
Enter.
Lear. Oh me my heart! My rising heart! But downe
Foole. Cry to it Nunckle, as the Cockney did to the
Eeles, when she put 'em i'th' Paste aliue, she knapt 'em
o'th' coxcombs with a sticke, and cryed downe wantons,
downe; 'twas her Brother, that in pure kindnesse to his
Horse buttered his Hay.
Enter Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Seruants.
Lear. Good morrow to you both
Corn. Haile to your Grace.
Kent here set at liberty.
Reg. I am glad to see your Highnesse
Lear. Regan, I thinke you are. I know what reason
I haue to thinke so, if thou should'st not be glad,
I would diuorce me from thy Mother Tombe,
Sepulchring an Adultresse. O are you free?
Some other time for that. Beloued Regan,
Thy Sisters naught: oh Regan, she hath tied
Sharpe-tooth'd vnkindnesse, like a vulture heere,
I can scarce speake to thee, thou'lt not beleeue
With how deprau'd a quality. Oh Regan
Reg. I pray you Sir, take patience, I haue hope
You lesse know how to value her desert,
Then she to scant her dutie
Lear. Say? How is that?
Reg. I cannot thinke my Sister in the least
Would faile her Obligation. If Sir perchance
She haue restrained the Riots of your Followres,
'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,
As cleeres her from all blame
Lear. My curses on her
Reg. O Sir, you are old,
Nature in you stands on the very Verge
Of his confine: you should be rul'd, and led
By some discretion, that discernes your state
Better then you your selfe: therefore I pray you,
That to our Sister, you do make returne,
Say you haue wrong'd her
Lear. Aske her forgiuenesse?
Do you but marke how this becomes the house?
Deere daughter, I confesse that I am old;
Age is vnnecessary: on my knees I begge,
That you'l vouchsafe me Rayment, Bed, and Food
Reg. Good Sir, no more: these are vnsightly trickes:
Returne you to my Sister
Lear. Neuer Regan:
She hath abated me of halfe my Traine;
Look'd blacke vpon me, strooke me with her Tongue
Most Serpent-like, vpon the very Heart.
All the stor'd Vengeances of Heauen, fall
On her ingratefull top: strike her yong bones
You taking Ayres, with Lamenesse
Corn. Fye sir, fie
Le. You nimble Lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornfull eyes: Infect her Beauty,
You Fen-suck'd Fogges, drawne by the powrfull Sunne,
To fall, and blister
Reg. O the blest Gods!
So will you wish on me, when the rash moode is on
Lear. No Regan, thou shalt neuer haue my curse:
Thy tender-hefted Nature shall not giue
Thee o're to harshnesse: Her eyes are fierce, but thine
Do comfort, and not burne. 'Tis not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my Traine,
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,
And in conclusion, to oppose the bolt
Against my comming in. Thou better know'st
The Offices of Nature, bond of Childhood,
Effects of Curtesie, dues of Gratitude:
Thy halfe o'th' Kingdome hast thou not forgot,
Wherein I thee endow'd
Reg. Good Sir, to'th' purpose.
Tucket within.
Lear. Who put my man i'th' Stockes?
Enter Steward.
Corn. What Trumpet's that?
Reg. I know't, my Sisters: this approues her Letter,
That she would soone be heere. Is your Lady come?
Lear. This is a Slaue, whose easie borrowed pride
Dwels in the sickly grace of her he followes.
Out Varlet, from my sight
Corn. What meanes your Grace?
Enter Gonerill.
Lear. Who stockt my Seruant? Regan, I haue good hope
Thou did'st not know on't.
Who comes here? O Heauens!
If you do loue old men; if your sweet sway
Allow Obedience; if you your selues are old,
Make it your cause: Send downe, and take my part.
Art not asham'd to looke vpon this Beard?
O Regan, will you take her by the hand?
Gon. Why not by'th' hand Sir? How haue I offended?
All's not offence that indiscretion findes,
And dotage termes so
Lear. O sides, you are too tough!
Will you yet hold?
How came my man i'th' Stockes?
Corn. I set him there, Sir: but his owne Disorders
Deseru'd much lesse aduancement
Lear. You? Did you?
Reg. I pray you Father being weake, seeme so.
If till the expiration of your Moneth
You will returne and soiourne with my Sister,
Dismissing halfe your traine, come then to me,
I am now from home, and out of that prouision
Which shall be needfull for your entertainement
Lear. Returne to her? and fifty men dismiss'd?
No, rather I abiure all roofes, and chuse
To wage against the enmity oth' ayre,
To be a Comrade with the Wolfe, and Owle,
Necessities sharpe pinch. Returne with her?
Why the hot-bloodied France, that dowerlesse tooke
Our yongest borne, I could as well be brought
To knee his Throne, and Squire-like pension beg,
To keepe base life a foote; returne with her?
Perswade me rather to be slaue and sumpter
To this detested groome
Gon. At your choice Sir
Lear. I prythee Daughter do not make me mad,
I will not trouble thee my Child; farewell:
Wee'l no more meete, no more see one another.
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my Daughter,
Or rather a disease that's in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a Byle,
A plague sore, or imbossed Carbuncle
In my corrupted blood. But Ile not chide thee,
Let shame come when it will, I do not call it,
I do not bid the Thunder-bearer shoote,
Nor tell tales of thee to high-iudging Ioue,
Mend when thou can'st, be better at thy leisure,
I can be patient, I can stay with Regan,
I and my hundred Knights
Reg. Not altogether so,
I look'd not for you yet, nor am prouided
For your fit welcome, giue eare Sir to my Sister,
For those that mingle reason with your passion,
Must be content to thinke you old, and so,
But she knowes what she doe's
Lear. Is this well spoken?
Reg. I dare auouch it Sir, what fifty Followers?
Is it not well? What should you need of more?
Yea, or so many? Sith that both charge and danger,
Speake 'gainst so great a number? How in one house
Should many people, vnder two commands
Hold amity? 'Tis hard, almost impossible
Gon. Why might not you my Lord, receiue attendance
From those that she cals Seruants, or from mine?
Reg. Why not my Lord?
If then they chanc'd to slacke ye,
We could comptroll them; if you will come to me,
(For now I spie a danger) I entreate you
To bring but fiue and twentie, to no more
Will I giue place or notice
Lear. I gaue you all
Reg. And in good time you gaue it
Lear. Made you my Guardians, my Depositaries,
But kept a reseruation to be followed
With such a number? What, must I come to you
With fiue and twenty? Regan, said you so?
Reg. And speak't againe my Lord, no more with me
Lea. Those wicked Creatures yet do look wel fauor'd
When others are more wicked, not being the worst
Stands in some ranke of praise, Ile go with thee,
Thy fifty yet doth double fiue and twenty,
And thou art twice her Loue
Gon. Heare me my Lord;
What need you fiue and twenty? Ten? Or fiue?
To follow in a house, where twice so many
Haue a command to tend you?
Reg. What need one?
Lear. O reason not the need: our basest Beggers
Are in the poorest thing superfluous.
Allow not Nature, more then Nature needs:
Mans life is cheape as Beastes. Thou art a Lady;
If onely to go warme were gorgeous,
Why Nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,
Which scarcely keepes thee warme, but for true need:
You Heauens, giue me that patience, patience I need,
You see me heere (you Gods) a poore old man,
As full of griefe as age, wretched in both,
If it be you that stirres these Daughters hearts
Against their Father, foole me not so much,
To beare it tamely: touch me with Noble anger,
And let not womens weapons, water drops,
Staine my mans cheekes. No you vnnaturall Hags,
I will haue such reuenges on you both,
That all the world shall- I will do such things,
What they are yet, I know not, but they shalbe
The terrors of the earth? you thinke Ile weepe,
No, Ile not weepe, I haue full cause of weeping.
Storme and Tempest.
But this heart shal break into a hundred thousand flawes
Or ere Ile weepe; O Foole, I shall go mad.
Exeunt.
Corn. Let vs withdraw, 'twill be a Storme
Reg. This house is little, the old man and's people,
Cannot be well bestow'd
Gon. 'Tis his owne blame hath put himselfe from rest,
And must needs taste his folly
Reg. For his particular, Ile receiue him gladly,
But not one follower
Gon. So am I purpos'd,
Where is my Lord of Gloster?
Enter Gloster.
Corn. Followed the old man forth, he is return'd
Glo. The King is in high rage
Corn. Whether is he going?
Glo. He cals to Horse, but will I know not whether
Corn. 'Tis best to giue him way, he leads himselfe
Gon. My Lord, entreate him by no meanes to stay
Glo. Alacke the night comes on, and the high windes
Do sorely ruffle, for many Miles about
There's scarce a Bush
Reg. O Sir, to wilfull men,
The iniuries that they themselues procure,
Must be their Schoole-Masters: shut vp your doores,
He is attended with a desperate traine,
And what they may incense him too, being apt,
To haue his eare abus'd, wisedome bids feare
Cor. Shut vp your doores my Lord, 'tis a wil'd night,
My Regan counsels well: come out oth' storme.
Exeunt.
| Kent and Oswald, messengers from Lear and Goneril, meet in the courtyard of Gloucester. Kent recognizes the steward and starts to berate him and challenges him to a fight because of his purpose against the king. Oswald refuses the fight, but Kent begins to beat him anyway. Gloucester, Regan, the Duke of Cornwall, and Edmund all appear and ask why they are fighting. When they explain, Regan sees the similarities between Kent, and the King's men her sister was complaining about, and has him put into the stocks. Everyone but Gloucester leaves Kent, and he promises the imprisoned messenger to help him in anyway possible | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Storme still. Enter Lear, and Foole.
Lear. Blow windes, & crack your cheeks; Rage, blow
You Cataracts, and Hyrricano's spout,
Till you haue drench'd our Steeples, drown the Cockes.
You Sulph'rous and Thought-executing Fires,
Vaunt-curriors of Oake-cleauing Thunder-bolts,
Sindge my white head. And thou all-shaking Thunder,
Strike flat the thicke Rotundity o'th' world,
Cracke Natures moulds, all germaines spill at once
That makes ingratefull Man
Foole. O Nunkle, Court holy-water in a dry house, is
better then this Rain-water out o' doore. Good Nunkle,
in, aske thy Daughters blessing, heere's a night pitties
neither Wisemen, nor Fooles
Lear. Rumble thy belly full: spit Fire, spowt Raine:
Nor Raine, Winde, Thunder, Fire are my Daughters;
I taxe not you, you Elements with vnkindnesse.
I neuer gaue you Kingdome, call'd you Children;
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure. Heere I stand your Slaue,
A poore, infirme, weake, and dispis'd old man:
But yet I call you Seruile Ministers,
That will with two pernicious Daughters ioyne
Your high-engender'd Battailes, 'gainst a head
So old, and white as this. O, ho! 'tis foule
Foole. He that has a house to put's head in, has a good
Head-peece:
The Codpiece that will house, before the head has any;
The Head, and he shall Lowse: so Beggers marry many.
The man y makes his Toe, what he his Hart shold make,
Shall of a Corne cry woe, and turne his sleepe to wake.
For there was neuer yet faire woman, but shee made
mouthes in a glasse.
Enter Kent
Lear. No, I will be the patterne of all patience,
I will say nothing
Kent. Who's there?
Foole. Marry here's Grace, and a Codpiece, that's a
Wiseman, and a Foole
Kent. Alas Sir are you here? Things that loue night,
Loue not such nights as these: The wrathfull Skies
Gallow the very wanderers of the darke
And make them keepe their Caues: Since I was man,
Such sheets of Fire, such bursts of horrid Thunder,
Such groanes of roaring Winde, and Raine, I neuer
Remember to haue heard. Mans Nature cannot carry
Th' affliction, nor the feare
Lear. Let the great Goddes
That keepe this dreadfull pudder o're our heads,
Finde out their enemies now. Tremble thou Wretch,
That hast within thee vndivulged Crimes
Vnwhipt of Iustice. Hide thee, thou Bloudy hand;
Thou Periur'd, and thou Simular of Vertue
That art Incestuous. Caytiffe, to peeces shake
That vnder couert, and conuenient seeming
Ha's practis'd on mans life. Close pent-vp guilts,
Riue your concealing Continents, and cry
These dreadfull Summoners grace. I am a man,
More sinn'd against, then sinning
Kent. Alacke, bare-headed?
Gracious my Lord, hard by heere is a Houell,
Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the Tempest:
Repose you there, while I to this hard house,
(More harder then the stones whereof 'tis rais'd,
Which euen but now, demanding after you,
Deny'd me to come in) returne, and force
Their scanted curtesie
Lear. My wits begin to turne.
Come on my boy. How dost my boy? Art cold?
I am cold my selfe. Where is this straw, my Fellow?
The Art of our Necessities is strange,
And can make vilde things precious. Come, your Houel;
Poore Foole, and Knaue, I haue one part in my heart
That's sorry yet for thee
Foole. He that has and a little-tyne wit,
With heigh-ho, the Winde and the Raine,
Must make content with his Fortunes fit,
Though the Raine it raineth euery day
Le. True Boy: Come bring vs to this Houell.
Enter.
Foole. This is a braue night to coole a Curtizan:
Ile speake a Prophesie ere I go:
When Priests are more in word, then matter;
When Brewers marre their Malt with water;
When Nobles are their Taylors Tutors,
No Heretiques burn'd, but wenches Sutors;
When euery Case in Law, is right;
No Squire in debt, nor no poore Knight;
When Slanders do not liue in Tongues;
Nor Cut-purses come not to throngs;
When Vsurers tell their Gold i'th' Field,
And Baudes, and whores, do Churches build,
Then shal the Realme of Albion, come to great confusion:
Then comes the time, who liues to see't,
That going shalbe vs'd with feet.
This prophecie Merlin shall make, for I liue before his time.
Enter.
| Lear and the Fool are caught out in the storm. The Fool begs him to go back to his daughters to seek shelter, but he refuses. Kent finds them and tells them that he has found a hovel in which they can take shelter. He leads them there to stay throughout the storm | summary |
Enter Gloster, and Edmund.
Glo. Alacke, alacke Edmund, I like not this vnnaturall
dealing; when I desired their leaue that I might pity him,
they tooke from me the vse of mine owne house, charg'd
me on paine of perpetuall displeasure, neither to speake
of him, entreat for him, or any way sustaine him
Bast. Most sauage and vnnaturall
Glo. Go too; say you nothing. There is diuision betweene
the Dukes, and a worsse matter then that: I haue
receiued a Letter this night, 'tis dangerous to be spoken,
I haue lock'd the Letter in my Closset, these iniuries the
King now beares, will be reuenged home; ther is part of
a Power already footed, we must incline to the King, I
will looke him, and priuily relieue him; goe you and
maintaine talke with the Duke, that my charity be not of
him perceiued; If he aske for me, I am ill, and gone to
bed, if I die for it, (as no lesse is threatned me) the King
my old Master must be relieued. There is strange things
toward Edmund, pray you be carefull.
Enter.
Bast. This Curtesie forbid thee, shall the Duke
Instantly know, and of that Letter too;
This seemes a faire deseruing, and must draw me
That which my Father looses: no lesse then all,
The yonger rises, when the old doth fall.
Enter.
| Gloucester does not like the way the duke and duchesses are treating their father. He tells Edmund of a letter he received about the division happening between the dukes and the French involvement. Gloucester decides to go to the ex-kings aid, and Edmund decides to capitalize on his father's decision. With instructions to make excuses for him if he is needed, Gloucester leaves, and Edmund goes to reveal what he knows to Cornwall | summary |
Scena Quarta.
Enter Lear, Kent, and Foole.
Kent. Here is the place my Lord, good my Lord enter,
The tirrany of the open night's too rough
For Nature to endure.
Storme still
Lear. Let me alone
Kent. Good my Lord enter heere
Lear. Wilt breake my heart?
Kent. I had rather breake mine owne,
Good my Lord enter
Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storme
Inuades vs to the skin so: 'tis to thee,
But where the greater malady is fixt,
The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a Beare,
But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,
Thou'dst meete the Beare i'th' mouth, when the mind's free,
The bodies delicate: the tempest in my mind,
Doth from my sences take all feeling else,
Saue what beates there, Filliall ingratitude,
Is it not as this mouth should teare this hand
For lifting food too't? But I will punish home;
No, I will weepe no more; in such a night,
To shut me out? Poure on, I will endure:
In such a night as this? O Regan, Gonerill,
Your old kind Father, whose franke heart gaue all,
O that way madnesse lies, let me shun that:
No more of that
Kent. Good my Lord enter here
Lear. Prythee go in thy selfe, seeke thine owne ease,
This tempest will not giue me leaue to ponder
On things would hurt me more, but Ile goe in,
In Boy, go first. You houselesse pouertie,
Enter.
Nay get thee in; Ile pray, and then Ile sleepe.
Poore naked wretches, where so ere you are
That bide the pelting of this pittilesse storme,
How shall your House-lesse heads, and vnfed sides,
Your lop'd, and window'd raggednesse defend you
From seasons such as these? O I haue tane
Too little care of this: Take Physicke, Pompe,
Expose thy selfe to feele what wretches feele,
That thou maist shake the superflux to them,
And shew the Heauens more iust.
Enter Edgar, and Foole.
Edg. Fathom, and halfe, Fathom and halfe; poore Tom
Foole. Come not in heere Nuncle, here's a spirit, helpe
me, helpe me
Kent. Giue my thy hand, who's there?
Foole. A spirite, a spirite, he sayes his name's poore
Tom
Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i'th'
straw? Come forth
Edg. Away, the foule Fiend followes me, through the
sharpe Hauthorne blow the windes. Humh, goe to thy
bed and warme thee
Lear. Did'st thou giue all to thy Daughters? And art
thou come to this?
Edgar. Who giues any thing to poore Tom? Whom
the foule fiend hath led through Fire, and through Flame,
through Sword, and Whirle-Poole, o're Bog, and Quagmire,
that hath laid Kniues vnder his Pillow, and Halters
in his Pue, set Rats-bane by his Porredge, made him
Proud of heart, to ride on a Bay trotting Horse, ouer foure
incht Bridges, to course his owne shadow for a Traitor.
Blisse thy fiue Wits, Toms a cold. O do, de, do, de, do, de,
blisse thee from Whirle-Windes, Starre-blasting, and taking,
do poore Tom some charitie, whom the foule Fiend
vexes. There could I haue him now, and there, and there
againe, and there.
Storme still.
Lear. Ha's his Daughters brought him to this passe?
Could'st thou saue nothing? Would'st thou giue 'em all?
Foole. Nay, he reseru'd a Blanket, else we had bin all
sham'd
Lea. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous ayre
Hang fated o're mens faults, light on thy Daughters
Kent. He hath no Daughters Sir
Lear. Death Traitor, nothing could haue subdu'd Nature
To such a lownesse, but his vnkind Daughters.
Is it the fashion, that discarded Fathers,
Should haue thus little mercy on their flesh:
Iudicious punishment, 'twas this flesh begot
Those Pelicane Daughters
Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, alow: alow, loo, loo
Foole. This cold night will turne vs all to Fooles, and
Madmen
Edgar. Take heed o'th' foule Fiend, obey thy Parents,
keepe thy words Iustice, sweare not, commit not,
with mans sworne Spouse: set not thy Sweet-heart on
proud array. Tom's a cold
Lear. What hast thou bin?
Edg. A Seruingman? Proud in heart, and minde; that
curl'd my haire, wore Gloues in my cap; seru'd the Lust
of my Mistris heart, and did the acte of darkenesse with
her. Swore as many Oathes, as I spake words, & broke
them in the sweet face of Heauen. One, that slept in the
contriuing of Lust, and wak'd to doe it. Wine lou'd I
deerely, Dice deerely; and in Woman, out-Paramour'd
the Turke. False of heart, light of eare, bloody of hand;
Hog in sloth, Foxe in stealth, Wolfe in greedinesse, Dog
in madnes, Lyon in prey. Let not the creaking of shooes,
Nor the rustling of Silkes, betray thy poore heart to woman.
Keepe thy foote out of Brothels, thy hand out of
Plackets, thy pen from Lenders Bookes, and defye the
foule Fiend. Still through the Hauthorne blowes the
cold winde: Sayes suum, mun, nonny, Dolphin my Boy,
Boy Sesey: let him trot by.
Storme still.
Lear. Thou wert better in a Graue, then to answere
with thy vncouer'd body, this extremitie of the Skies. Is
man no more then this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st
the Worme no Silke; the Beast, no Hide; the Sheepe, no
Wooll; the Cat, no perfume. Ha? Here's three on's are
sophisticated. Thou art the thing it selfe; vnaccommodated
man, is no more but such a poore, bare, forked Animall
as thou art. Off, off you Lendings: Come, vnbutton
heere.
Enter Gloucester, with a Torch.
Foole. Prythee Nunckle be contented, 'tis a naughtie
night to swimme in. Now a little fire in a wilde Field,
were like an old Letchers heart, a small spark, all the rest
on's body, cold: Looke, heere comes a walking fire
Edg. This is the foule Flibbertigibbet; hee begins at
Curfew, and walkes at first Cocke: Hee giues the Web
and the Pin, squints the eye, and makes the Hare-lippe;
Mildewes the white Wheate, and hurts the poore Creature
of earth.
Swithold footed thrice the old,
He met the Night-Mare, and her nine-fold;
Bid her a-light, and her troth-plight,
And aroynt thee Witch, aroynt thee
Kent. How fares your Grace?
Lear. What's he?
Kent. Who's there? What is't you seeke?
Glou. What are you there? Your Names?
Edg. Poore Tom, that eates the swimming Frog, the
Toad, the Tod-pole, the wall-Neut, and the water: that
in the furie of his heart, when the foule Fiend rages, eats
Cow-dung for Sallets; swallowes the old Rat, and the
ditch-Dogge; drinkes the green Mantle of the standing
Poole: who is whipt from Tything to Tything, and
stockt, punish'd, and imprison'd: who hath three Suites
to his backe, sixe shirts to his body:
Horse to ride, and weapon to weare:
But Mice, and Rats, and such small Deare,
Haue bin Toms food, for seuen long yeare:
Beware my Follower. Peace Smulkin, peace thou Fiend
Glou. What, hath your Grace no better company?
Edg. The Prince of Darkenesse is a Gentleman. Modo
he's call'd, and Mahu
Glou. Our flesh and blood, my Lord, is growne so
vilde, that it doth hate what gets it
Edg. Poore Tom's a cold
Glou. Go in with me; my duty cannot suffer
T' obey in all your daughters hard commands:
Though their Iniunction be to barre my doores,
And let this Tyrannous night take hold vpon you,
Yet haue I ventured to come seeke you out,
And bring you where both fire, and food is ready
Lear. First let me talke with this Philosopher,
What is the cause of Thunder?
Kent. Good my Lord take his offer,
Go into th' house
Lear. Ile talke a word with this same lerned Theban:
What is your study?
Edg. How to preuent the Fiend, and to kill Vermine
Lear. Let me aske you one word in priuate
Kent. Importune him once more to go my Lord,
His wits begin t' vnsettle
Glou. Canst thou blame him?
Storm still
His Daughters seeke his death: Ah, that good Kent,
He said it would be thus: poore banish'd man:
Thou sayest the King growes mad, Ile tell thee Friend
I am almost mad my selfe. I had a Sonne,
Now out-law'd from my blood: he sought my life
But lately: very late: I lou'd him (Friend)
No Father his Sonne deerer: true to tell thee,
The greefe hath craz'd my wits. What a night's this?
I do beseech your grace
Lear. O cry you mercy, Sir:
Noble Philosopher, your company
Edg. Tom's a cold
Glou. In fellow there, into th' Houel; keep thee warm
Lear. Come, let's in all
Kent. This way, my Lord
Lear. With him;
I will keepe still with my Philosopher
Kent. Good my Lord, sooth him:
Let him take the Fellow
Glou. Take him you on
Kent. Sirra, come on: go along with vs
Lear. Come, good Athenian
Glou. No words, no words, hush
Edg. Childe Rowland to the darke Tower came,
His word was still, fie, foh, and fumme,
I smell the blood of a Brittish man.
Exeunt.
| Lear and his men reach the hovel, and he mourns that his daughters have betrayed him. When they enter the hovel, they find Edgar disguised as a madman. When the madman speaks, Lear wonders if it was the man's daughters that drove him mad. He laments on how daughters are the roots of the evils in his life. The men begin talking to the beggar, and Gloucester enters telling them that he doesn't approve of the way they have been treated. Lear decides that he likes the beggar and continues having conversations with him while Gloucester tries to get the men to come to a house he has prepared for them. Kent and Gloucester think that Lear is beginning to go mad, and Gloucester himself admits that he feels like he's going mad with everything that happened with Edgar. They all remove to the house Gloucester has prepared, and Lear decides that he must take the beggar too because he enjoys talking to him | summary |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Cornwall, and Edmund.
Corn. I will haue my reuenge, ere I depart his house
Bast. How my Lord, I may be censured, that Nature
thus giues way to Loyaltie, something feares mee to
thinke of
Cornw. I now perceiue, it was not altogether your
Brothers euill disposition made him seeke his death: but
a prouoking merit set a-worke by a reprouable badnesse
in himselfe
Bast. How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent
to be iust? This is the Letter which hee spoake of;
which approues him an intelligent partie to the aduantages
of France. O Heauens! that this Treason were not;
or not I the detector
Corn. Go with me to the Dutchesse
Bast. If the matter of this Paper be certain, you haue
mighty businesse in hand
Corn. True or false, it hath made thee Earle of Gloucester:
seeke out where thy Father is, that hee may bee
ready for our apprehension
Bast. If I finde him comforting the King, it will stuffe
his suspition more fully. I will perseuer in my course of
Loyalty, though the conflict be sore betweene that, and
my blood
Corn. I will lay trust vpon thee: and thou shalt finde
a deere Father in my loue.
Exeunt.
| Edmund gives Cornwall the incriminating letter from the French and he is very angry. For the bastard's loyalty, Cornwall makes him the Earl of Gloucester, and his father an outlaw. Cornwall tells Edmund that he must accompany him to see Regan | summary |
Scena Sexta.
Enter Kent, and Gloucester.
Glou. Heere is better then the open ayre, take it thankfully:
I will peece out the comfort with what addition I
can: I will not be long from you.
Exit
Kent. All the powre of his wits, haue giuen way to his
impatience: the Gods reward your kindnesse.
Enter Lear, Edgar, and Foole.
Edg. Fraterretto cals me, and tells me Nero is an Angler
in the Lake of Darknesse: pray Innocent, and beware
the foule Fiend
Foole. Prythee Nunkle tell me, whether a madman be
a Gentleman, or a Yeoman
Lear. A King, a King
Foole. No, he's a Yeoman, that ha's a Gentleman to
his Sonne: for hee's a mad Yeoman that sees his Sonne a
Gentleman before him
Lear. To haue a thousand with red burning spits
Come hizzing in vpon 'em
Edg. Blesse thy fiue wits
Kent. O pitty: Sir, where is the patience now
That you so oft haue boasted to retaine?
Edg. My teares begin to take his part so much,
They marre my counterfetting
Lear. The little dogges, and all;
Trey, Blanch, and Sweet-heart: see, they barke at me
Edg. Tom, will throw his head at them: Auaunt you
Curres, be thy mouth or blacke or white:
Tooth that poysons if it bite:
Mastiffe, Grey-hound, Mongrill, Grim,
Hound or Spaniell, Brache, or Hym:
Or Bobtaile tight, or Troudle taile,
Tom will make him weepe and waile,
For with throwing thus my head;
Dogs leapt the hatch, and all are fled.
Do, de, de, de: sese: Come, march to Wakes and Fayres,
And Market Townes: poore Tom thy horne is dry,
Lear. Then let them Anatomize Regan: See what
breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in Nature that
make these hard-hearts. You sir, I entertaine for one of
my hundred; only, I do not like the fashion of your garments.
You will say they are Persian; but let them bee
chang'd.
Enter Gloster.
Kent. Now good my Lord, lye heere, and rest awhile
Lear. Make no noise, make no noise, draw the Curtaines:
so, so, wee'l go to Supper i'th' morning
Foole. And Ile go to bed at noone
Glou. Come hither Friend:
Where is the King my Master?
Kent. Here Sir, but trouble him not, his wits are gon
Glou. Good friend, I prythee take him in thy armes;
I haue ore-heard a plot of death vpon him:
There is a Litter ready, lay him in't,
And driue toward Douer friend, where thou shalt meete
Both welcome, and protection. Take vp thy Master,
If thou should'st dally halfe an houre, his life
With thine, and all that offer to defend him,
Stand in assured losse. Take vp, take vp,
And follow me, that will to some prouision
Giue thee quicke conduct. Come, come, away.
Exeunt.
| When the men in the storm arrive at the house that Gloucester has prepared for them, the king decides to put his daughters to a mock trial. Kent urges him to sleep, but in his madness he can only think about punishing his children. Gloucester has left them to go back to his castle, but promises to be back soon. When their trial is over, Lear decides to finally sleep. Gloucester returns and tells Kent that he overheard a plot to kill the king. He urges the men to take him to Dover and meet up with the French forces where he will be safe | summary |
Scena Septima.
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gonerill, Bastard, and Seruants.
Corn. Poste speedily to my Lord your husband, shew
him this Letter, the Army of France is landed: seeke out
the Traitor Glouster
Reg. Hang him instantly
Gon. Plucke out his eyes
Corn. Leaue him to my displeasure. Edmond, keepe
you our Sister company: the reuenges wee are bound to
take vppon your Traitorous Father, are not fit for your
beholding. Aduice the Duke where you are going, to a
most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our
Postes shall be swift, and intelligent betwixt vs. Farewell
deere Sister, farewell my Lord of Glouster.
Enter Steward.
How now? Where's the King?
Stew. My Lord of Glouster hath conuey'd him hence
Some fiue or six and thirty of his Knights
Hot Questrists after him, met him at gate,
Who, with some other of the Lords, dependants,
Are gone with him toward Douer; where they boast
To haue well armed Friends
Corn. Get horses for your Mistris
Gon. Farewell sweet Lord, and Sister.
Exit
Corn. Edmund farewell: go seek the Traitor Gloster,
Pinnion him like a Theefe, bring him before vs:
Though well we may not passe vpon his life
Without the forme of Iustice: yet our power
Shall do a curt'sie to our wrath, which men
May blame, but not comptroll.
Enter Gloucester, and Seruants.
Who's there? the Traitor?
Reg. Ingratefull Fox, 'tis he
Corn. Binde fast his corky armes
Glou. What meanes your Graces?
Good my Friends consider you are my Ghests:
Do me no foule play, Friends
Corn. Binde him I say
Reg. Hard, hard: O filthy Traitor
Glou. Vnmercifull Lady, as you are, I'me none
Corn. To this Chaire binde him,
Villaine, thou shalt finde
Glou. By the kinde Gods, 'tis most ignobly done
To plucke me by the Beard
Reg. So white, and such a Traitor?
Glou. Naughty Ladie,
These haires which thou dost rauish from my chin
Will quicken and accuse thee. I am your Host,
With Robbers hands, my hospitable fauours
You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?
Corn. Come Sir.
What Letters had you late from France?
Reg. Be simple answer'd, for we know the truth
Corn. And what confederacie haue you with the Traitors,
late footed in the Kingdome?
Reg. To whose hands
You haue sent the Lunaticke King: Speake
Glou. I haue a Letter guessingly set downe
Which came from one that's of a newtrall heart,
And not from one oppos'd
Corn. Cunning
Reg. And false
Corn. Where hast thou sent the King?
Glou. To Douer
Reg. Wherefore to Douer?
Was't thou not charg'd at perill
Corn. Wherefore to Douer? Let him answer that
Glou. I am tyed to'th' Stake,
And I must stand the Course
Reg. Wherefore to Douer?
Glou. Because I would not see thy cruell Nailes
Plucke out his poore old eyes: nor thy fierce Sister,
In his Annointed flesh, sticke boarish phangs.
The Sea, with such a storme as his bare head,
In Hell-blacke-night indur'd, would haue buoy'd vp
And quench'd the Stelled fires:
Yet poore old heart, he holpe the Heauens to raine.
If Wolues had at thy Gate howl'd that sterne time,
Thou should'st haue said, good Porter turne the Key:
All Cruels else subscribe: but I shall see
The winged Vengeance ouertake such Children
Corn. See't shalt thou neuer. Fellowes hold y Chaire,
Vpon these eyes of thine, Ile set my foote
Glou. He that will thinke to liue, till he be old,
Giue me some helpe. - O cruell! O you Gods
Reg. One side will mocke another: Th' other too
Corn. If you see vengeance
Seru. Hold your hand, my Lord:
I haue seru'd you euer since I was a Childe:
But better seruice haue I neuer done you,
Then now to bid you hold
Reg. How now, you dogge?
Ser. If you did weare a beard vpon your chin,
I'ld shake it on this quarrell. What do you meane?
Corn. My Villaine?
Seru. Nay then come on, and take the chance of anger
Reg. Giue me thy Sword. A pezant stand vp thus?
Killes him.
Ser. Oh I am slaine: my Lord, you haue one eye left
To see some mischefe on him. Oh
Corn. Lest it see more, preuent it; Out vilde gelly:
Where is thy luster now?
Glou. All darke and comfortlesse?
Where's my Sonne Edmund?
Edmund, enkindle all the sparkes of Nature
To quit this horrid acte
Reg. Out treacherous Villaine,
Thou call'st on him, that hates thee. It was he
That made the ouerture of thy Treasons to vs:
Who is too good to pitty thee
Glou. O my Follies! then Edgar was abus'd,
Kinde Gods, forgiue me that, and prosper him
Reg. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell
His way to Douer.
Exit with Glouster.
How is't my Lord? How looke you?
Corn. I haue receiu'd a hurt: Follow me Lady;
Turne out that eyelesse Villaine: throw this Slaue
Vpon the Dunghill: Regan, I bleed apace,
Vntimely comes this hurt. Giue me your arme.
Exeunt.
| Cornwall gives a copy of the incriminating French letter to Goneril and instructs her to take it to her husband, the Duke of Albany. He sends men to find the traitor Duke of Gloucester and sends Edmund with Goneril so he will not have to witness his father's demise. Word comes in that the king is being taken to Dover to meet up with the French forces. Cornwall issues more orders and Gloucester enters no knowing he is considered a traitor. They bind him and torture him by forcing out his eyes. One of the servants tries to stop Cornwall but is killed. Gloucester calls for Edmund, but the Duchess tells him that his son was their informant. The Earl realizes that Edgar was innocent and it was his brother who betrayed him. The Duke was hurt in the skirmish however, and they have to retreat into the castle to take care of his wounds releasing the eyeless Earl | summary |
Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. Yet better thus, and knowne to be contemn'd,
Then still contemn'd and flatter'd, to be worst:
The lowest, and most deiected thing of Fortune,
Stands still in esperance, liues not in feare:
The lamentable change is from the best,
The worst returnes to laughter. Welcome then,
Thou vnsubstantiall ayre that I embrace:
The Wretch that thou hast blowne vnto the worst,
Owes nothing to thy blasts.
Enter Glouster, and an Oldman.
But who comes heere? My Father poorely led?
World, World, O world!
But that thy strange mutations make vs hate thee,
Life would not yeelde to age
Oldm. O my good Lord, I haue bene your Tenant,
And your Fathers Tenant, these fourescore yeares
Glou. Away, get thee away: good Friend be gone,
Thy comforts can do me no good at all,
Thee, they may hurt
Oldm. You cannot see your way
Glou. I haue no way, and therefore want no eyes:
I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seene,
Our meanes secure vs, and our meere defects
Proue our Commodities. Oh deere Sonne Edgar,
The food of thy abused Fathers wrath:
Might I but liue to see thee in my touch,
I'ld say I had eyes againe
Oldm. How now? who's there?
Edg. O Gods! Who is't can say I am at the worst?
I am worse then ere I was
Old. 'Tis poore mad Tom
Edg. And worse I may be yet: the worst is not,
So long as we can say this is the worst
Oldm. Fellow, where goest?
Glou. Is it a Beggar-man?
Oldm. Madman, and beggar too
Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I'th' last nights storme, I such a fellow saw;
Which made me thinke a Man, a Worme. My Sonne
Came then into my minde, and yet my minde
Was then scarse Friends with him.
I haue heard more since:
As Flies to wanton Boyes, are we to th' Gods,
They kill vs for their sport
Edg. How should this be?
Bad is the Trade that must play Foole to sorrow,
Ang'ring it selfe, and others. Blesse thee Master
Glou. Is that the naked Fellow?
Oldm. I, my Lord
Glou. Get thee away: If for my sake
Thou wilt ore-take vs hence a mile or twaine
I'th' way toward Douer, do it for ancient loue,
And bring some couering for this naked Soule,
Which Ile intreate to leade me
Old. Alacke sir, he is mad
Glou. 'Tis the times plague,
When Madmen leade the blinde:
Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure:
Aboue the rest, be gone
Oldm. Ile bring him the best Parrell that I haue
Come on't what will.
Exit
Glou. Sirrah, naked fellow
Edg. Poore Tom's a cold. I cannot daub it further
Glou. Come hither fellow
Edg. And yet I must:
Blesse thy sweete eyes, they bleede
Glou. Know'st thou the way to Douer?
Edg. Both style, and gate; Horseway, and foot-path:
poore Tom hath bin scarr'd out of his good wits. Blesse
thee good mans sonne, from the foule Fiend
Glou. Here take this purse, y whom the heau'ns plagues
Haue humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched
Makes thee the happier: Heauens deale so still:
Let the superfluous, and Lust-dieted man,
That slaues your ordinance, that will not see
Because he do's not feele, feele your powre quickly:
So distribution should vndoo excesse,
And each man haue enough. Dost thou know Douer?
Edg. I Master
Glou. There is a Cliffe, whose high and bending head
Lookes fearfully in the confined Deepe:
Bring me but to the very brimme of it,
And Ile repayre the misery thou do'st beare
With something rich about me: from that place,
I shall no leading neede
Edg. Giue me thy arme;
Poore Tom shall leade thee.
Exeunt.
| Gloucester is brought out of the castle by an old man who is a tenant of his. While on the road they run into Edgar disguised still as the beggar. Edgar hears his father's laments about how he wronged his rightful son. Gloucester tells the old man to let him go with Edgar to Dover, and Edgar agrees happily to take him. They journey, and Gloucester says that once they arrive to take him to a cliff | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Gonerill, Bastard, and Steward.
Gon. Welcome my Lord. I meruell our mild husband
Not met vs on the way. Now, where's your Master?
Stew. Madam within, but neuer man so chang'd:
I told him of the Army that was Landed:
He smil'd at it. I told him you were comming,
His answer was, the worse. Of Glosters Treachery,
And of the loyall Seruice of his Sonne
When I inform'd him, then he call'd me Sot,
And told me I had turn'd the wrong side out:
What most he should dislike, seemes pleasant to him;
What like, offensiue
Gon. Then shall you go no further.
It is the Cowish terror of his spirit
That dares not vndertake: Hee'l not feele wrongs
Which tye him to an answer: our wishes on the way
May proue effects. Backe Edmond to my Brother,
Hasten his Musters, and conduct his powres.
I must change names at home, and giue the Distaffe
Into my Husbands hands. This trustie Seruant
Shall passe betweene vs: ere long you are like to heare
(If you dare venture in your owne behalfe)
A Mistresses command. Weare this; spare speech,
Decline your head. This kisse, if it durst speake
Would stretch thy Spirits vp into the ayre:
Conceiue, and fare thee well
Bast. Yours in the rankes of death.
Enter.
Gon. My most deere Gloster.
Oh, the difference of man, and man,
To thee a Womans seruices are due,
My Foole vsurpes my body
Stew. Madam, here come's my Lord.
Enter Albany.
Gon. I haue beene worth the whistle
Alb. Oh Gonerill,
You are not worth the dust which the rude winde
Blowes in your face
Gon. Milke-Liuer'd man,
That bear'st a cheeke for blowes, a head for wrongs,
Who hast not in thy browes an eye-discerning
Thine Honor, from thy suffering
Alb. See thy selfe diuell:
Proper deformitie seemes not in the Fiend
So horrid as in woman
Gon. Oh vaine Foole.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes. Oh my good Lord, the Duke of Cornwals dead,
Slaine by his Seruant, going to put out
The other eye of Glouster
Alb. Glousters eyes
Mes. A Seruant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse,
Oppos'd against the act: bending his Sword
To his great Master, who, threat-enrag'd
Flew on him, and among'st them fell'd him dead,
But not without that harmefull stroke, which since
Hath pluckt him after
Alb. This shewes you are aboue
You Iustices, that these our neather crimes
So speedily can venge. But (O poore Glouster)
Lost he his other eye?
Mes. Both, both, my Lord.
This Leter Madam, craues a speedy answer:
'Tis from your Sister
Gon. One way I like this well.
But being widdow, and my Glouster with her,
May all the building in my fancie plucke
Vpon my hatefull life. Another way
The Newes is not so tart. Ile read, and answer
Alb. Where was his Sonne,
When they did take his eyes?
Mes. Come with my Lady hither
Alb. He is not heere
Mes. No my good Lord, I met him backe againe
Alb. Knowes he the wickednesse?
Mes. I my good Lord: 'twas he inform'd against him
And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment
Might haue the freer course
Alb. Glouster, I liue
To thanke thee for the loue thou shew'dst the King,
And to reuenge thine eyes. Come hither Friend,
Tell me what more thou know'st.
Exeunt.
| When Goneril and Edmund return to Goneril's castle, they are met by Oswald and informed of the Duke of Albany's position on the French landing, and the happenings at Gloucester. Goneril, realizing that her husband feels opposite than she, sends Edmund back to her brother in law. When Albany sees his wife he berates her for her treatment of her father and they fight until a messenger enters with news of the Duke of Cornwall's death. He also tells Albany about Gloucester losing his eyes, and the Duke feels sorry for the blind Earl. With him the messenger sends a letter from Regan to Goneril, and she takes it to another room to read. Albany swears to avenge Gloucester's eyes, and goes off with the Messenger to learn more details | summary |
Scena Tertia.
Enter with Drum and Colours, Cordelia, Gentlemen, and
Souldiours.
Cor. Alacke, 'tis he: why he was met euen now
As mad as the vext Sea, singing alowd.
Crown'd with ranke Fenitar, and furrow weeds,
With Hardokes, Hemlocke, Nettles, Cuckoo flowres,
Darnell, and all the idle weedes that grow
In our sustaining Corne. A Centery send forth;
Search euery Acre in the high-growne field,
And bring him to our eye. What can mans wisedome
In the restoring his bereaued Sense; he that helpes him,
Take all my outward worth
Gent. There is meanes Madam:
Our foster Nurse of Nature, is repose,
The which he lackes: that to prouoke in him
Are many Simples operatiue, whose power
Will close the eye of Anguish
Cord. All blest Secrets,
All you vnpublish'd Vertues of the earth
Spring with my teares; be aydant, and remediate
In the Goodmans desires: seeke, seeke for him,
Least his vngouern'd rage, dissolue the life
That wants the meanes to leade it.
Enter Messenger.
Mes. Newes Madam,
The Brittish Powres are marching hitherward
Cor. 'Tis knowne before. Our preparation stands
In expectation of them. O deere Father,
It is thy businesse that I go about: Therfore great France
My mourning, and importun'd teares hath pittied:
No blowne Ambition doth our Armes incite,
But loue, deere loue, and our ag'd Fathers Rite:
Soone may I heare, and see him.
Exeunt.
| Kent and the Gentleman meet in Dover to exchange news. The Gentleman tells Kent that the King of France is not present, but leaves his army to the Marshal and his wife. He also tells him of Cordelia's reaction to her sister's treatment of her father. She is devastated for him, and angry at the things they inflicted upon him. Kent informs the Gentleman that Lear is in Dover, but refuses to see his daughter because the way he treated her. He is wracked with guilt that he cheated her out of her dowry. Kent then takes him to take care of Lear | summary |
Scena Quarta.
Enter Regan, and Steward.
Reg. But are my Brothers Powres set forth?
Stew. I Madam
Reg. Himselfe in person there?
Stew. Madam with much ado:
Your Sister is the better Souldier
Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your Lord at home?
Stew. No Madam
Reg. What might import my Sisters Letter to him?
Stew. I know not, Lady
Reg. Faith he is poasted hence on serious matter:
It was great ignorance, Glousters eyes being out
To let him liue. Where he arriues, he moues
All hearts against vs: Edmund, I thinke is gone
In pitty of his misery, to dispatch
His nighted life: Moreouer to descry
The strength o'th' Enemy
Stew. I must needs after him, Madam, with my Letter
Reg. Our troopes set forth to morrow, stay with vs:
The wayes are dangerous
Stew. I may not Madam:
My Lady charg'd my dutie in this busines
Reg. Why should she write to Edmund?
Might not you transport her purposes by word? Belike,
Some things, I know not what. Ile loue thee much
Let me vnseale the Letter
Stew. Madam, I had rather-
Reg. I know your Lady do's not loue her Husband,
I am sure of that: and at her late being heere,
She gaue strange Eliads, and most speaking lookes
To Noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosome
Stew. I, Madam?
Reg. I speake in vnderstanding: Y'are: I know't,
Therefore I do aduise you take this note:
My Lord is dead: Edmond, and I haue talk'd,
And more conuenient is he for my hand
Then for your Ladies: You may gather more:
If you do finde him, pray you giue him this;
And when your Mistris heares thus much from you,
I pray desire her call her wisedome to her.
So fare you well:
If you do chance to heare of that blinde Traitor,
Preferment fals on him, that cuts him off
Stew. Would I could meet Madam, I should shew
What party I do follow
Reg. Fare thee well.
Exeunt.
| Cordelia speaks with the doctor in her camp and sends out men to find her father. A messenger brings her news of the British forces advancing upon them, and she says that they are prepared for them | summary |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Gloucester, and Edgar.
Glou. When shall I come to th' top of that same hill?
Edg. You do climbe vp it now. Look how we labor
Glou. Me thinkes the ground is eeuen
Edg. Horrible steepe.
Hearke, do you heare the Sea?
Glou. No truly
Edg. Why then your other Senses grow imperfect
By your eyes anguish
Glou. So may it be indeed.
Me thinkes thy voyce is alter'd, and thou speak'st
In better phrase, and matter then thou did'st
Edg. Y'are much deceiu'd: In nothing am I chang'd
But in my Garments
Glou. Me thinkes y'are better spoken
Edg. Come on Sir,
Heere's the place: stand still: how fearefull
And dizie 'tis, to cast ones eyes so low,
The Crowes and Choughes, that wing the midway ayre
Shew scarse so grosse as Beetles. Halfe way downe
Hangs one that gathers Sampire: dreadfull Trade:
Me thinkes he seemes no bigger then his head.
The Fishermen, that walk'd vpon the beach
Appeare like Mice: and yond tall Anchoring Barke,
Diminish'd to her Cocke: her Cocke, a Buoy
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring Surge,
That on th' vnnumbred idle Pebble chafes
Cannot be heard so high. Ile looke no more,
Least my braine turne, and the deficient sight
Topple downe headlong
Glou. Set me where you stand
Edg. Giue me your hand:
You are now within a foote of th' extreme Verge:
For all beneath the Moone would I not leape vpright
Glou. Let go my hand:
Heere Friend's another purse: in it, a Iewell
Well worth a poore mans taking. Fayries, and Gods
Prosper it with thee. Go thou further off,
Bid me farewell, and let me heare thee going
Edg. Now fare ye well, good Sir
Glou. With all my heart
Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his dispaire,
Is done to cure it
Glou. O you mighty Gods!
This world I do renounce, and in your sights
Shake patiently my great affliction off:
If I could beare it longer, and not fall
To quarrell with your great opposelesse willes,
My snuffe, and loathed part of Nature should
Burne it selfe out. If Edgar liue, O blesse him:
Now Fellow, fare thee well
Edg. Gone Sir, farewell:
And yet I know not how conceit may rob
The Treasury of life, when life it selfe
Yeelds to the Theft. Had he bin where he thought,
By this had thought bin past. Aliue, or dead?
Hoa, you Sir: Friend, heare you Sir, speake:
Thus might he passe indeed: yet he reuiues.
What are you Sir?
Glou. Away, and let me dye
Edg. Had'st thou beene ought
But Gozemore, Feathers, Ayre,
(So many fathome downe precipitating)
Thou'dst shiuer'd like an Egge: but thou do'st breath:
Hast heauy substance, bleed'st not, speak'st, art sound,
Ten Masts at each, make not the altitude
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell,
Thy life's a Myracle. Speake yet againe
Glou. But haue I falne, or no?
Edg. From the dread Somnet of this Chalkie Bourne
Looke vp a height, the shrill-gorg'd Larke so farre
Cannot be seene, or heard: Do but looke vp
Glou. Alacke, I haue no eyes:
Is wretchednesse depriu'd that benefit
To end it selfe by death? 'Twas yet some comfort,
When misery could beguile the Tyrants rage,
And frustrate his proud will
Edg. Giue me your arme.
Vp, so: How is't? Feele you your Legges? You stand
Glou. Too well, too well
Edg. This is aboue all strangenesse,
Vpon the crowne o'th' Cliffe. What thing was that
Which parted from you?
Glou. A poore vnfortunate Beggar
Edg. As I stood heere below, me thought his eyes
Were two full Moones: he had a thousand Noses,
Hornes wealk'd, and waued like the enraged Sea:
It was some Fiend: Therefore thou happy Father,
Thinke that the cleerest Gods, who make them Honors
Of mens Impossibilities, haue preserued thee
Glou. I do remember now: henceforth Ile beare
Affliction, till it do cry out it selfe
Enough, enough, and dye. That thing you speake of,
I tooke it for a man: often 'twould say
The Fiend, the Fiend, he led me to that place
Edgar. Beare free and patient thoughts.
Enter Lear.
But who comes heere?
The safer sense will ne're accommodate
His Master thus
Lear. No, they cannot touch me for crying. I am the
King himselfe
Edg. O thou side-piercing sight!
Lear. Nature's aboue Art, in that respect. Ther's your
Presse-money. That fellow handles his bow, like a Crowkeeper:
draw mee a Cloathiers yard. Looke, looke, a
Mouse: peace, peace, this peece of toasted Cheese will
doo't. There's my Gauntlet, Ile proue it on a Gyant.
Bring vp the browne Billes. O well flowne Bird: i'th'
clout, i'th' clout: Hewgh. Giue the word
Edg. Sweet Mariorum
Lear. Passe
Glou. I know that voice
Lear. Ha! Gonerill with a white beard? They flatter'd
me like a Dogge, and told mee I had the white hayres in
my Beard, ere the blacke ones were there. To say I, and
no, to euery thing that I said: I, and no too, was no good
Diuinity. When the raine came to wet me once, and the
winde to make me chatter: when the Thunder would not
peace at my bidding, there I found 'em, there I smelt 'em
out. Go too, they are not men o'their words; they told
me, I was euery thing: 'Tis a Lye, I am not Agu-proofe
Glou. The tricke of that voyce, I do well remember:
Is't not the King?
Lear. I, euery inch a King.
When I do stare, see how the Subiect quakes.
I pardon that mans life. What was thy cause?
Adultery? thou shalt not dye: dye for Adultery?
No, the Wren goes too't, and the small gilded Fly
Do's letcher in my sight. Let Copulation thriue:
For Glousters bastard Son was kinder to his Father,
Then my Daughters got 'tweene the lawfull sheets.
Too't Luxury pell-mell, for I lacke Souldiers.
Behold yond simpring Dame, whose face betweene her
Forkes presages Snow; that minces Vertue, & do's shake
the head to heare of pleasures name. The Fitchew, nor
the soyled Horse goes too't with a more riotous appetite:
Downe from the waste they are Centaures, though
Women all aboue: but to the Girdle do the Gods inherit,
beneath is all the Fiends. There's hell, there's darkenes,
there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench,
consumption: Fye, fie, fie; pah, pah: Giue me an Ounce
of Ciuet; good Apothecary sweeten my immagination:
There's money for thee
Glou. O let me kisse that hand
Lear. Let me wipe it first,
It smelles of Mortality
Glou. O ruin'd peece of Nature, this great world
Shall so weare out to naught.
Do'st thou know me?
Lear. I remember thine eyes well enough: dost thou
squiny at me? No, doe thy worst blinde Cupid, Ile not
loue. Reade thou this challenge, marke but the penning
of it
Glou. Were all thy Letters Sunnes, I could not see
Edg. I would not take this from report,
It is, and my heart breakes at it
Lear. Read
Glou. What with the Case of eyes?
Lear. Oh ho, are you there with me? No eies in your
head, nor no mony in your purse? Your eyes are in a heauy
case, your purse in a light, yet you see how this world
goes
Glou. I see it feelingly
Lear. What, art mad? A man may see how this world
goes, with no eyes. Looke with thine eares: See how
yond Iustice railes vpon yond simple theefe. Hearke in
thine eare: Change places, and handy-dandy, which is
the Iustice, which is the theefe: Thou hast seene a Farmers
dogge barke at a Beggar?
Glou. I Sir
Lear. And the Creature run from the Cur: there thou
might'st behold the great image of Authoritie, a Dogg's
obey'd in Office. Thou, Rascall Beadle, hold thy bloody
hand: why dost thou lash that Whore? Strip thy owne
backe, thou hotly lusts to vse her in that kind, for which
thou whip'st her. The Vsurer hangs the Cozener. Thorough
tatter'd cloathes great Vices do appeare: Robes,
and Furr'd gownes hide all. Place sinnes with Gold, and
the strong Lance of Iustice, hurtlesse breakes: Arme it in
ragges, a Pigmies straw do's pierce it. None do's offend,
none, I say none, Ile able 'em; take that of me my Friend,
who haue the power to seale th' accusers lips. Get thee
glasse-eyes, and like a scuruy Politician, seeme to see the
things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now. Pull off my
Bootes: harder, harder, so
Edg. O matter, and impertinency mixt,
Reason in Madnesse
Lear. If thou wilt weepe my Fortunes, take my eyes.
I know thee well enough, thy name is Glouster:
Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:
Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the Ayre
We wawle, and cry. I will preach to thee: Marke
Glou. Alacke, alacke the day
Lear. When we are borne, we cry that we are come
To this great stage of Fooles. This a good blocke:
It were a delicate stratagem to shoo
A Troope of Horse with Felt: Ile put't in proofe,
And when I haue stolne vpon these Son in Lawes,
Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gent. Oh heere he is: lay hand vpon him, Sir.
Your most deere Daughter-
Lear. No rescue? What, a Prisoner? I am euen
The Naturall Foole of Fortune. Vse me well,
You shall haue ransome. Let me haue Surgeons,
I am cut to'th' Braines
Gent. You shall haue any thing
Lear. No Seconds? All my selfe?
Why, this would make a man, a man of Salt
To vse his eyes for Garden water-pots. I wil die brauely,
Like a smugge Bridegroome. What? I will be Iouiall:
Come, come, I am a King, Masters, know you that?
Gent. You are a Royall one, and we obey you
Lear. Then there's life in't. Come, and you get it,
You shall get it by running: Sa, sa, sa, sa.
Enter.
Gent. A sight most pittifull in the meanest wretch,
Past speaking of in a King. Thou hast a Daughter
Who redeemes Nature from the generall curse
Which twaine haue brought her to
Edg. Haile gentle Sir
Gent. Sir, speed you: what's your will?
Edg. Do you heare ought (Sir) of a Battell toward
Gent. Most sure, and vulgar:
Euery one heares that, which can distinguish sound
Edg. But by your fauour:
How neere's the other Army?
Gent. Neere, and on speedy foot: the maine descry
Stands on the hourely thought
Edg. I thanke you Sir, that's all
Gent. Though that the Queen on special cause is here
Her Army is mou'd on.
Enter.
Edg. I thanke you Sir
Glou. You euer gentle Gods, take my breath from me,
Let not my worser Spirit tempt me againe
To dye before you please
Edg. Well pray you Father
Glou. Now good sir, what are you?
Edg. A most poore man, made tame to Fortunes blows
Who, by the Art of knowne, and feeling sorrowes,
Am pregnant to good pitty. Giue me your hand,
Ile leade you to some biding
Glou. Heartie thankes:
The bountie, and the benizon of Heauen
To boot, and boot.
Enter Steward.
Stew. A proclaim'd prize: most happie
That eyelesse head of thine, was first fram'd flesh
To raise my fortunes. Thou old, vnhappy Traitor,
Breefely thy selfe remember: the Sword is out
That must destroy thee
Glou. Now let thy friendly hand
Put strength enough too't
Stew. Wherefore, bold Pezant,
Dar'st thou support a publish'd Traitor? Hence,
Least that th' infection of his fortune take
Like hold on thee. Let go his arme
Edg. Chill not let go Zir,
Without vurther 'casion
Stew. Let go Slaue, or thou dy'st
Edg. Good Gentleman goe your gate, and let poore
volke passe: and 'chud ha' bin zwaggerd out of my life,
'twould not ha' bin zo long as 'tis, by a vortnight. Nay,
come not neere th' old man: keepe out che vor' ye, or Ile
try whither your Costard, or my Ballow be the harder;
chill be plaine with you
Stew. Out Dunghill
Edg. Chill picke your teeth Zir: come, no matter vor
your foynes
Stew. Slaue thou hast slaine me: Villain, take my purse;
If euer thou wilt thriue, bury my bodie,
And giue the Letters which thou find'st about me,
To Edmund Earle of Glouster: seeke him out
Vpon the English party. Oh vntimely death, death
Edg. I know thee well. A seruiceable Villaine,
As duteous to the vices of thy Mistris,
As badnesse would desire
Glou. What, is he dead?
Edg. Sit you downe Father: rest you.
Let's see these Pockets; the Letters that he speakes of
May be my Friends: hee's dead; I am onely sorry
He had no other Deathsman. Let vs see:
Leaue gentle waxe, and manners: blame vs not
To know our enemies mindes, we rip their hearts,
Their Papers is more lawfull.
Reads the Letter.
Let our reciprocall vowes be remembred. You haue manie
opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and
place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done. If hee
returne the Conqueror, then am I the Prisoner, and his bed, my
Gaole, from the loathed warmth whereof, deliuer me, and supply
the place for your Labour.
Your (Wife, so I would say) affectionate
Seruant. Gonerill.
Oh indistinguish'd space of Womans will,
A plot vpon her vertuous Husbands life,
And the exchange my Brother: heere, in the sands
Thee Ile rake vp, the poste vnsanctified
Of murtherous Letchers: and in the mature time,
With this vngracious paper strike the sight
Of the death-practis'd Duke: for him 'tis well,
That of thy death, and businesse, I can tell
Glou. The King is mad:
How stiffe is my vilde sense
That I stand vp, and haue ingenious feeling
Of my huge Sorrowes? Better I were distract,
So should my thoughts be seuer'd from my greefes,
Drum afarre off.
And woes, by wrong imaginations loose
The knowledge of themselues
Edg. Giue me your hand:
Farre off methinkes I heare the beaten Drumme.
Come Father, Ile bestow you with a Friend.
Exeunt.
| Oswald carries a message back to Regan from Goneril and Regan finds out that she has also sent a message to Edmund. Regan, now that her husband is dead, decides that she should marry Edmund. Thinking that her sister also has affection for him and not for her husband, she wants to win him before Goneril can get him. She sends a note back to her sister and sends someone out to find Edmund | summary |
Scaena Septima.
Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Gentleman.
Cor. O thou good Kent,
How shall I liue and worke
To match thy goodnesse?
My life will be too short,
And euery measure faile me
Kent. To be acknowledg'd Madam is ore-pai'd,
All my reports go with the modest truth,
Nor more, nor clipt, but so
Cor. Be better suited,
These weedes are memories of those worser houres:
I prythee put them off
Kent. Pardon deere Madam,
Yet to be knowne shortens my made intent,
My boone I make it, that you know me not,
Till time, and I, thinke meet
Cor. Then be't so my good Lord:
How do's the King?
Gent. Madam sleepes still
Cor. O you kind Gods!
Cure this great breach in his abused Nature,
Th' vntun'd and iarring senses, O winde vp,
Of this childe-changed Father
Gent. So please your Maiesty,
That we may wake the King, he hath slept long?
Cor. Be gouern'd by your knowledge, and proceede
I'th' sway of your owne will: is he array'd?
Enter Lear in a chaire carried by Seruants]
Gent. I Madam: in the heauinesse of sleepe,
We put fresh garments on him.
Be by good Madam when we do awake him,
I doubt of his Temperance
Cor. O my deere Father, restauratian hang
Thy medicine on my lippes, and let this kisse
Repaire those violent harmes, that my two Sisters
Haue in thy Reuerence made
Kent. Kind and deere Princesse
Cor. Had you not bin their Father, these white flakes
Did challenge pitty of them. Was this a face
To be oppos'd against the iarring windes?
Mine Enemies dogge, though he had bit me,
Should haue stood that night against my fire,
And was't thou faine (poore Father)
To houell thee with Swine and Rogues forlorne,
In short, and musty straw? Alacke, alacke,
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once
Had not concluded all. He wakes, speake to him
Gen. Madam do you, 'tis fittest
Cor. How does my Royall Lord?
How fares your Maiesty?
Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o'th' graue,
Thou art a Soule in blisse, but I am bound
Vpon a wheele of fire, that mine owne teares
Do scal'd, like molten Lead
Cor. Sir, do you know me?
Lear. You are a spirit I know, where did you dye?
Cor. Still, still, farre wide
Gen. He's scarse awake,
Let him alone a while
Lear. Where haue I bin?
Where am I? Faire day light?
I am mightily abus'd; I should eu'n dye with pitty
To see another thus. I know not what to say:
I will not sweare these are my hands: let's see,
I feele this pin pricke, would I were assur'd
Of my condition
Cor. O looke vpon me Sir,
And hold your hand in benediction o're me,
You must not kneele
Lear. Pray do not mocke me:
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourescore and vpward,
Not an houre more, nor lesse:
And to deale plainely,
I feare I am not in my perfect mind.
Me thinkes I should know you, and know this man,
Yet I am doubtfull: For I am mainely ignorant
What place this is: and all the skill I haue
Remembers not these garments: nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me,
For (as I am a man) I thinke this Lady
To be my childe Cordelia
Cor. And so I am: I am
Lear. Be your teares wet?
Yes faith: I pray weepe not,
If you haue poyson for me, I will drinke it:
I know you do not loue me, for your Sisters
Haue (as I do remember) done me wrong.
You haue some cause, they haue not
Cor. No cause, no cause
Lear. Am I in France?
Kent. In your owne kingdome Sir
Lear. Do not abuse me
Gent. Be comforted good Madam, the great rage
You see is kill'd in him: desire him to go in,
Trouble him no more till further setling
Cor. Wilt please your Highnesse walke?
Lear. You must beare with me:
Pray you now forget, and forgiue,
I am old and foolish.
Exeunt.
| Back in the French camp, Cordelia recognizes Kent, but he asks her to keep his identity a secret still. She agrees, and tells the doctor it is ok if he wakes her father who has been sleeping in their care. He awakens, and at first thinks he is dead. He then recognizes Cordelia, but thinks that she will do him harm because of all the sisters, she has the best motive. They tell him he is safe and take him away. Only the Gentleman and Kent stay and they discuss the battle that is about to brew. Edmund is leading the Duke of Cornwall's forces, and it is rumored that Edgar is in Germany | summary |
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
Enter with Drumme and Colours, Edmund, Regan. Gentlemen, and
Souldiers.
Bast. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold,
Or whether since he is aduis'd by ought
To change the course, he's full of alteration,
And selfereprouing, bring his constant pleasure
Reg. Our Sisters man is certainely miscarried
Bast. 'Tis to be doubted Madam
Reg. Now sweet Lord,
You know the goodnesse I intend vpon you:
Tell me but truly, but then speake the truth,
Do you not loue my Sister?
Bast. In honour'd Loue
Reg. But haue you neuer found my Brothers way,
To the fore-fended place?
Bast. No by mine honour, Madam
Reg. I neuer shall endure her, deere my Lord
Be not familiar with her
Bast. Feare not, she and the Duke her husband.
Enter with Drum and Colours, Albany, Gonerill, Soldiers.
Alb. Our very louing Sister, well be-met:
Sir, this I heard, the King is come to his Daughter
With others, whom the rigour of our State
Forc'd to cry out
Regan. Why is this reasond?
Gone. Combine together 'gainst the Enemie:
For these domesticke and particular broiles,
Are not the question heere
Alb. Let's then determine with th' ancient of warre
On our proceeding
Reg. Sister you'le go with vs?
Gon. No
Reg. 'Tis most conuenient, pray go with vs
Gon. Oh ho, I know the Riddle, I will goe.
Exeunt. both the Armies.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. If ere your Grace had speech with man so poore,
Heare me one word
Alb. Ile ouertake you, speake
Edg. Before you fight the Battaile, ope this Letter:
If you haue victory, let the Trumpet sound
For him that brought it: wretched though I seeme,
I can produce a Champion, that will proue
What is auouched there. If you miscarry,
Your businesse of the world hath so an end,
And machination ceases. Fortune loues you
Alb. Stay till I haue read the Letter
Edg. I was forbid it:
When time shall serue, let but the Herald cry,
And Ile appeare againe.
Enter.
Alb. Why farethee well, I will o're-looke thy paper.
Enter Edmund.
Bast. The Enemy's in view, draw vp your powers,
Heere is the guesse of their true strength and Forces,
By dilligent discouerie, but your hast
Is now vrg'd on you
Alb. We will greet the time.
Enter.
Bast. To both these Sisters haue I sworne my loue:
Each iealous of the other, as the stung
Are of the Adder. Which of them shall I take?
Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enioy'd
If both remaine aliue: To take the Widdow,
Exasperates, makes mad her Sister Gonerill,
And hardly shall I carry out my side,
Her husband being aliue. Now then, wee'l vse
His countenance for the Battaile, which being done,
Let her who would be rid of him, deuise
His speedy taking off. As for the mercie
Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia,
The Battaile done, and they within our power,
Shall neuer see his pardon: for my state,
Stands on me to defend, not to debate.
Enter.
| Edmund and Regan are speaking, and Regan asks Edmund if he loves Goneril. He answers that he does, and Regan is disappointed. The Duke of Albany and Edmund decide to join forces against the invading French army when Edgar comes to them dressed in his disguise and gives a paper to Albany. Edmund enters and gives another paper to Albany all the while, trying to figure out which sister he will choose since he's sworn his love to both. He decides to wait until the battle is over, and unlike Albany intends to show no mercy to Cordelia or Lear | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Alarum within. Enter with Drumme and Colours, Lear, Cordelia,
and
Souldiers, ouer the Stage, and Exeunt. Enter Edgar, and Gloster.
Edg. Heere Father, take the shadow of this Tree
For your good hoast: pray that the right may thriue:
If euer I returne to you againe,
Ile bring you comfort
Glo. Grace go with you Sir.
Enter.
Alarum and Retreat within. Enter Edgar.
Edgar. Away old man, giue me thy hand, away:
King Lear hath lost, he and his Daughter tane,
Giue me thy hand: Come on
Glo. No further Sir, a man may rot euen heere
Edg. What in ill thoughts againe?
Men must endure
Their going hence, euen as their comming hither,
Ripenesse is all come on
Glo. And that's true too.
Exeunt.
| Edgar drags his father along and tells him that the French army has been defeated, and Cordelia and Lear wear captured | summary |
Scena Tertia.
Enter in conquest with Drum and Colours, Edmund, Lear, and
Cordelia, as
prisoners, Souldiers, Captaine.
Bast. Some Officers take them away: good guard,
Vntill their greater pleasures first be knowne
That are to censure them
Cor. We are not the first,
Who with best meaning haue incurr'd the worst:
For thee oppressed King I am cast downe,
My selfe could else out-frowne false Fortunes frowne.
Shall we not see these Daughters, and these Sisters?
Lear. No, no, no, no: come let's away to prison,
We two alone will sing like Birds i'th' Cage:
When thou dost aske me blessing, Ile kneele downe
And aske of thee forgiuenesse: So wee'l liue,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded Butterflies: and heere (poore Rogues)
Talke of Court newes, and wee'l talke with them too,
Who looses, and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take vpon's the mystery of things,
As if we were Gods spies: And wee'l weare out
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebbe and flow by th' Moone
Bast. Take them away
Lear. Vpon such sacrifices my Cordelia,
The Gods themselues throw Incense.
Haue I caught thee?
He that parts vs, shall bring a Brand from Heauen,
And fire vs hence, like Foxes: wipe thine eyes,
The good yeares shall deuoure them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make vs weepe?
Weele see 'em staru'd first: come.
Enter.
Bast. Come hither Captaine, hearke.
Take thou this note, go follow them to prison,
One step I haue aduanc'd thee, if thou do'st
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way
To Noble Fortunes: know thou this, that men
Are as the time is; to be tender minded
Do's not become a Sword, thy great imployment
Will not beare question: either say thou'lt do't,
Or thriue by other meanes
Capt. Ile do't my Lord
Bast. About it, and write happy, when th'hast done,
Marke I say instantly, and carry it so
As I haue set it downe.
Exit Captaine.
Flourish. Enter Albany, Gonerill, Regan, Soldiers.
Alb. Sir, you haue shew'd to day your valiant straine
And Fortune led you well: you haue the Captiues
Who were the opposites of this dayes strife:
I do require them of you so to vse them,
As we shall find their merites, and our safety
May equally determine
Bast. Sir, I thought it fit,
To send the old and miserable King to some retention,
Whose age had Charmes in it, whose Title more,
To plucke the common bosome on his side,
And turne our imprest Launces in our eies
Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen:
My reason all the same, and they are ready
To morrow, or at further space, t' appeare
Where you shall hold your Session
Alb. Sir, by your patience,
I hold you but a subiect of this Warre,
Not as a Brother
Reg. That's as we list to grace him.
Methinkes our pleasure might haue bin demanded
Ere you had spoke so farre. He led our Powers,
Bore the Commission of my place and person,
The which immediacie may well stand vp,
And call it selfe your Brother
Gon. Not so hot:
In his owne grace he doth exalt himselfe,
More then in your addition
Reg. In my rights,
By me inuested, he compeeres the best
Alb. That were the most, if he should husband you
Reg. Iesters do oft proue Prophets
Gon. Hola, hola,
That eye that told you so, look'd but a squint
Rega. Lady I am not well, else I should answere
From a full flowing stomack. Generall,
Take thou my Souldiers, prisoners, patrimony,
Dispose of them, of me, the walls is thine:
Witnesse the world, that I create thee heere
My Lord, and Master
Gon. Meane you to enioy him?
Alb. The let alone lies not in your good will
Bast. Nor in thine Lord
Alb. Halfe-blooded fellow, yes
Reg. Let the Drum strike, and proue my title thine
Alb. Stay yet, heare reason: Edmund, I arrest thee
On capitall Treason; and in thy arrest,
This guilded Serpent: for your claime faire Sisters,
I bare it in the interest of my wife,
'Tis she is sub-contracted to this Lord,
And I her husband contradict your Banes.
If you will marry, make your loues to me,
My Lady is bespoke
Gon. An enterlude
Alb. Thou art armed Gloster,
Let the Trumpet sound:
If none appeare to proue vpon thy person,
Thy heynous, manifest, and many Treasons,
There is my pledge: Ile make it on thy heart
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing lesse
Then I haue heere proclaim'd thee
Reg. Sicke, O sicke
Gon. If not, Ile nere trust medicine
Bast. There's my exchange, what in the world hes
That names me Traitor, villain-like he lies,
Call by the Trumpet: he that dares approach;
On him, on you, who not, I will maintaine
My truth and honor firmely.
Enter a Herald.
Alb. A Herald, ho.
Trust to thy single vertue, for thy Souldiers
All leuied in my name, haue in my name
Tooke their discharge
Regan. My sicknesse growes vpon me
Alb. She is not well, conuey her to my Tent.
Come hither Herald, let the Trumpet sound,
And read out this.
A Trumpet sounds.
Herald reads.
If any man of qualitie or degree, within the lists of the Army,
will maintaine vpon Edmund, supposed Earle of Gloster,
that he is a manifold Traitor, let him appeare by the third
sound of the Trumpet: he is bold in his defence.
1 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
2 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
3 Trumpet.
Trumpet answers within.
Enter Edgar armed.
Alb. Aske him his purposes, why he appeares
Vpon this Call o'th' Trumpet
Her. What are you?
Your name, your quality, and why you answer
This present Summons?
Edg. Know my name is lost
By Treasons tooth: bare-gnawne, and Canker-bit,
Yet am I Noble as the Aduersary
I come to cope
Alb. Which is that Aduersary?
Edg. What's he that speakes for Edmund Earle of Gloster?
Bast. Himselfe, what saist thou to him?
Edg. Draw thy Sword,
That if my speech offend a Noble heart,
Thy arme may do thee Iustice, heere is mine:
Behold it is my priuiledge,
The priuiledge of mine Honours,
My oath, and my profession. I protest,
Maugre thy strength, place, youth, and eminence,
Despise thy victor-Sword, and fire new Fortune,
Thy valor, and thy heart, thou art a Traitor:
False to thy Gods, thy Brother, and thy Father,
Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious Prince,
And from th' extremest vpward of thy head,
To the discent and dust below thy foote,
A most Toad-spotted Traitor. Say thou no,
This Sword, this arme, and my best spirits are bent
To proue vpon thy heart, where to I speake,
Thou lyest
Bast. In wisedome I should aske thy name,
But since thy out-side lookes so faire and Warlike,
And that thy tongue (some say) of breeding breathes,
What safe, and nicely I might well delay,
By rule of Knight-hood, I disdaine and spurne:
Backe do I tosse these Treasons to thy head,
With the hell-hated Lye, ore-whelme thy heart,
Which for they yet glance by, and scarcely bruise,
This Sword of mine shall giue them instant way,
Where they shall rest for euer. Trumpets speake
Alb. Saue him, saue him.
Alarums. Fights.
Gon. This is practise Gloster,
By th' law of Warre, thou wast not bound to answer
An vnknowne opposite: thou art not vanquish'd,
But cozend, and beguild
Alb. Shut your mouth Dame,
Or with this paper shall I stop it: hold Sir,
Thou worse then any name, reade thine owne euill:
No tearing Lady, I perceiue you know it
Gon. Say if I do, the Lawes are mine not thine,
Who can araigne me for't?
Enter.
Alb. Most monstrous! O, know'st thou this paper?
Bast. Aske me not what I know
Alb. Go after her, she's desperate, gouerne her
Bast. What you haue charg'd me with,
That haue I done,
And more, much more, the time will bring it out.
'Tis past, and so am I: But what art thou
That hast this Fortune on me? If thou'rt Noble,
I do forgiue thee
Edg. Let's exchange charity:
I am no lesse in blood then thou art Edmond,
If more, the more th'hast wrong'd me.
My name is Edgar and thy Fathers Sonne,
The Gods are iust, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague vs:
The darke and vitious place where thee he got,
Cost him his eyes
Bast. Th'hast spoken right, 'tis true,
The Wheele is come full circle, I am heere
Alb. Me thought thy very gate did prophesie
A Royall Noblenesse: I must embrace thee,
Let sorrow split my heart, if euer I
Did hate thee, or thy Father
Edg. Worthy Prince I know't
Alb. Where haue you hid your selfe?
How haue you knowne the miseries of your Father?
Edg. By nursing them my Lord. List a breefe tale,
And when 'tis told, O that my heart would burst.
The bloody proclamation to escape
That follow'd me so neere, (O our liues sweetnesse,
That we the paine of death would hourely dye,
Rather then die at once) taught me to shift
Into a mad-mans rags, t' assume a semblance
That very Dogges disdain'd: and in this habit
Met I my Father with his bleeding Rings,
Their precious Stones new lost: became his guide,
Led him, begg'd for him, sau'd him from dispaire.
Neuer (O fault) reueal'd my selfe vnto him,
Vntill some halfe houre past when I was arm'd,
Not sure, though hoping of this good successe,
I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last
Told him our pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart
(Alacke too weake the conflict to support)
Twixt two extremes of passion, ioy and greefe,
Burst smilingly
Bast. This speech of yours hath mou'd me,
And shall perchance do good, but speake you on,
You looke as you had something more to say
Alb. If there be more, more wofull, hold it in,
For I am almost ready to dissolue,
Hearing of this.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gen. Helpe, helpe: O helpe
Edg. What kinde of helpe?
Alb. Speake man
Edg. What meanes this bloody Knife?
Gen. 'Tis hot, it smoakes, it came euen from the heart
of- O she's dead
Alb. Who dead? Speake man
Gen. Your Lady Sir, your Lady; and her Sister
By her is poyson'd: she confesses it
Bast. I was contracted to them both, all three
Now marry in an instant
Edg. Here comes Kent.
Enter Kent.
Alb. Produce the bodies, be they aliue or dead;
Gonerill and Regans bodies brought out.
This iudgement of the Heauens that makes vs tremble.
Touches vs not with pitty: O, is this he?
The time will not allow the complement
Which very manners vrges
Kent. I am come
To bid my King and Master aye good night.
Is he not here?
Alb. Great thing of vs forgot,
Speake Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia?
Seest thou this obiect Kent?
Kent. Alacke, why thus?
Bast. Yet Edmund was belou'd:
The one the other poison'd for my sake,
And after slew herselfe
Alb. Euen so: couer their faces
Bast. I pant for life: some good I meane to do
Despight of mine owne Nature. Quickly send,
(Be briefe in it) to'th' Castle, for my Writ
Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia:
Nay, send in time
Alb. Run, run, O run
Edg. To who my Lord? Who ha's the Office?
Send thy token of repreeue
Bast. Well thought on, take my Sword,
Giue it the Captaine
Edg. Hast thee for thy life
Bast. He hath Commission from thy Wife and me,
To hang Cordelia in the prison, and
To lay the blame vpon her owne dispaire,
That she for-did her selfe
Alb. The Gods defend her, beare him hence awhile.
Enter Lear with Cordelia in his armes.
Lear. Howle, howle, howle: O you are men of stones,
Had I your tongues and eyes, Il'd vse them so,
That Heauens vault should crack: she's gone for euer.
I know when one is dead, and when one liues,
She's dead as earth: Lend me a Looking-glasse,
If that her breath will mist or staine the stone,
Why then she liues
Kent. Is this the promis'd end?
Edg. Or image of that horror
Alb. Fall and cease
Lear. This feather stirs, she liues: if it be so,
It is a chance which do's redeeme all sorrowes
That euer I haue felt
Kent. O my good Master
Lear. Prythee away
Edg. 'Tis Noble Kent your Friend
Lear. A plague vpon you Murderors, Traitors all,
I might haue sau'd her, now she's gone for euer:
Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha:
What is't thou saist? Her voice was euer soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the Slaue that was a hanging thee
Gent. 'Tis true (my Lords) he did
Lear. Did I not fellow?
I haue seene the day, with my good biting Faulchion
I would haue made him skip: I am old now,
And these same crosses spoile me. Who are you?
Mine eyes are not o'th' best, Ile tell you straight
Kent. If Fortune brag of two, she lou'd and hated,
One of them we behold
Lear. This is a dull sight, are you not Kent?
Kent. The same: your Seruant Kent,
Where is your Seruant Caius?
Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that,
He'le strike and quickly too, he's dead and rotten
Kent. No my good Lord, I am the very man
Lear. Ile see that straight
Kent. That from your first of difference and decay,
Haue follow'd your sad steps
Lear. You are welcome hither
Kent. Nor no man else:
All's cheerlesse, darke, and deadly,
Your eldest Daughters haue fore-done themselues,
And desperately are dead
Lear. I so I thinke
Alb. He knowes not what he saies, and vaine is it
That we present vs to him.
Enter a Messenger.
Edg. Very bootlesse
Mess. Edmund is dead my Lord
Alb. That's but a trifle heere:
You Lords and Noble Friends, know our intent,
What comfort to this great decay may come,
Shall be appli'd. For vs we will resigne,
During the life of this old Maiesty
To him our absolute power, you to your rights,
With boote, and such addition as your Honours
Haue more then merited. All Friends shall
Taste the wages of their vertue, and all Foes
The cup of their deseruings: O see, see
Lear. And my poore Foole is hang'd: no, no, no life?
Why should a Dog, a Horse, a Rat haue life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer.
Pray you vndo this Button. Thanke you Sir,
Do you see this? Looke on her? Looke her lips,
Looke there, looke there.
He dies.
Edg. He faints, my Lord, my Lord
Kent. Breake heart, I prythee breake
Edg. Looke vp my Lord
Kent. Vex not his ghost, O let him passe, he hates him,
That would vpon the wracke of this tough world
Stretch him out longer
Edg. He is gon indeed
Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long,
He but vsurpt his life
Alb. Beare them from hence, our present businesse
Is generall woe: Friends of my soule, you twaine,
Rule in this Realme, and the gor'd state sustaine
Kent. I haue a iourney Sir, shortly to go,
My Master calls me, I must not say no
Edg. The waight of this sad time we must obey,
Speake what we feele, not what we ought to say:
The oldest hath borne most, we that are yong,
Shall neuer see so much, nor liue so long.
Exeunt. with a dead March.
FINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF KING LEAR.
| Cordelia and Lear are sent to prison but plan happy ways to spend their time there. Edmund tells his captain as he's taking them that they are to be assassinated. Albany enters to discuss the conditions of the prisoners, and Edmund tells him they will discuss it later. The women then get in a fight over Edmund, and Albany challenges him for trying to steal his wife. Goneril poisons Regan, and Edgar comes forward to fight Edmund in hand-to-hand combat. They battle and Edmund is wounded. Albany then asks Goneril about her involvement in the plot to kill him and she refuses to answer. Edmund then asks his challengers name, and Edgar reveals himself. He tells his tale of dressing as a madman, and how he just witnessed his father's death. Afterwards, he pleads for Kent because of all he's done for the king. A man enters with a bloody knife and says that Goneril has killed her self and confessed to poisoning her sister. Kent arrives and asks after the king. Edmund admits that he ordered the king and Cordelia killed, and they send a man after them to prevent it. Lear comes out with a dead Cordelia in his arms, and Kent reveals himself to his king and Albany decides to give Lear back his thrown. But because of his sadness at Cordelia's death, Lear dies as well much to the sadness of his loyal followers | summary |
To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well
as its feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan
no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with
itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its
flat boughs rise and fall. And winter, which modifies the note of such
trees as shed their leaves, does not destroy its individuality.
On a cold and starry Christmas-eve within living memory a man was passing
up a lane towards Mellstock Cross in the darkness of a plantation that
whispered thus distinctively to his intelligence. All the evidences of
his nature were those afforded by the spirit of his footsteps, which
succeeded each other lightly and quickly, and by the liveliness of his
voice as he sang in a rural cadence:
"With the rose and the lily
And the daffodowndilly,
The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go."
The lonely lane he was following connected one of the hamlets of
Mellstock parish with Upper Mellstock and Lewgate, and to his eyes,
casually glancing upward, the silver and black-stemmed birches with their
characteristic tufts, the pale grey boughs of beech, the dark-creviced
elm, all appeared now as black and flat outlines upon the sky, wherein
the white stars twinkled so vehemently that their flickering seemed like
the flapping of wings. Within the woody pass, at a level anything lower
than the horizon, all was dark as the grave. The copse-wood forming the
sides of the bower interlaced its branches so densely, even at this
season of the year, that the draught from the north-east flew along the
channel with scarcely an interruption from lateral breezes.
After passing the plantation and reaching Mellstock Cross the white
surface of the lane revealed itself between the dark hedgerows like a
ribbon jagged at the edges; the irregularity being caused by temporary
accumulations of leaves extending from the ditch on either side.
The song (many times interrupted by flitting thoughts which took the
place of several bars, and resumed at a point it would have reached had
its continuity been unbroken) now received a more palpable check, in the
shape of "Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" from the crossing lane to Lower Mellstock, on
the right of the singer who had just emerged from the trees.
"Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" he answered, stopping and looking round, though with no
idea of seeing anything more than imagination pictured.
"Is that thee, young Dick Dewy?" came from the darkness.
"Ay, sure, Michael Mail."
"Then why not stop for fellow-craters--going to thy own father's house
too, as we be, and knowen us so well?"
Dick Dewy faced about and continued his tune in an under-whistle,
implying that the business of his mouth could not be checked at a
moment's notice by the placid emotion of friendship.
Having come more into the open he could now be seen rising against the
sky, his profile appearing on the light background like the portrait of a
gentleman in black cardboard. It assumed the form of a low-crowned hat,
an ordinary-shaped nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary neck, and ordinary
shoulders. What he consisted of further down was invisible from lack of
sky low enough to picture him on.
Shuffling, halting, irregular footsteps of various kinds were now heard
coming up the hill, and presently there emerged from the shade severally
five men of different ages and gaits, all of them working villagers of
the parish of Mellstock. They, too, had lost their rotundity with the
daylight, and advanced against the sky in flat outlines, which suggested
some processional design on Greek or Etruscan pottery. They represented
the chief portion of Mellstock parish choir.
The first was a bowed and bent man, who carried a fiddle under his arm,
and walked as if engaged in studying some subject connected with the
surface of the road. He was Michael Mail, the man who had hallooed to
Dick.
The next was Mr. Robert Penny, boot- and shoemaker; a little man, who,
though rather round-shouldered, walked as if that fact had not come to
his own knowledge, moving on with his back very hollow and his face fixed
on the north-east quarter of the heavens before him, so that his lower
waist-coat-buttons came first, and then the remainder of his figure. His
features were invisible; yet when he occasionally looked round, two faint
moons of light gleamed for an instant from the precincts of his eyes,
denoting that he wore spectacles of a circular form.
The third was Elias Spinks, who walked perpendicularly and dramatically.
The fourth outline was Joseph Bowman's, who had now no distinctive
appearance beyond that of a human being. Finally came a weak lath-like
form, trotting and stumbling along with one shoulder forward and his head
inclined to the left, his arms dangling nervelessly in the wind as if
they were empty sleeves. This was Thomas Leaf.
"Where be the boys?" said Dick to this somewhat indifferently-matched
assembly.
The eldest of the group, Michael Mail, cleared his throat from a great
depth.
"We told them to keep back at home for a time, thinken they wouldn't be
wanted yet awhile; and we could choose the tuens, and so on."
"Father and grandfather William have expected ye a little sooner. I have
just been for a run round by Ewelease Stile and Hollow Hill to warm my
feet."
"To be sure father did! To be sure 'a did expect us--to taste the little
barrel beyond compare that he's going to tap."
"'Od rabbit it all! Never heard a word of it!" said Mr. Penny, gleams of
delight appearing upon his spectacle-glasses, Dick meanwhile singing
parenthetically--
"The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go."
"Neighbours, there's time enough to drink a sight of drink now afore
bedtime?" said Mail.
"True, true--time enough to get as drunk as lords!" replied Bowman
cheerfully.
This opinion being taken as convincing they all advanced between the
varying hedges and the trees dotting them here and there, kicking their
toes occasionally among the crumpled leaves. Soon appeared glimmering
indications of the few cottages forming the small hamlet of Upper
Mellstock for which they were bound, whilst the faint sound of church-
bells ringing a Christmas peal could be heard floating over upon the
breeze from the direction of Longpuddle and Weatherbury parishes on the
other side of the hills. A little wicket admitted them to the garden,
and they proceeded up the path to Dick's house.
| The book begins on a cold and starry Christmas Eve in Mellstock. Dick Dewy, an ordinary looking young man, is singing on his way home through the woods. Five other villagers, also traveling towards the Dewy house, join Dick, including Michael Mail , Robert Penny , Elias Spinks , Joseph Bowman , and Thomas Leaf . Dick tells all five of them that his father and grandfather have been eagerly awaiting their arrival. In fact, all of the Mellstock men's choir will be meeting at Dick's house, assembling for the annual carol sing. The five villagers tell Dick that they are delighted at the thought of drinking from the new barrel of cider that Dick's father is going to tap for them. | summary |
To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well
as its feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan
no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with
itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its
flat boughs rise and fall. And winter, which modifies the note of such
trees as shed their leaves, does not destroy its individuality.
On a cold and starry Christmas-eve within living memory a man was passing
up a lane towards Mellstock Cross in the darkness of a plantation that
whispered thus distinctively to his intelligence. All the evidences of
his nature were those afforded by the spirit of his footsteps, which
succeeded each other lightly and quickly, and by the liveliness of his
voice as he sang in a rural cadence:
"With the rose and the lily
And the daffodowndilly,
The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go."
The lonely lane he was following connected one of the hamlets of
Mellstock parish with Upper Mellstock and Lewgate, and to his eyes,
casually glancing upward, the silver and black-stemmed birches with their
characteristic tufts, the pale grey boughs of beech, the dark-creviced
elm, all appeared now as black and flat outlines upon the sky, wherein
the white stars twinkled so vehemently that their flickering seemed like
the flapping of wings. Within the woody pass, at a level anything lower
than the horizon, all was dark as the grave. The copse-wood forming the
sides of the bower interlaced its branches so densely, even at this
season of the year, that the draught from the north-east flew along the
channel with scarcely an interruption from lateral breezes.
After passing the plantation and reaching Mellstock Cross the white
surface of the lane revealed itself between the dark hedgerows like a
ribbon jagged at the edges; the irregularity being caused by temporary
accumulations of leaves extending from the ditch on either side.
The song (many times interrupted by flitting thoughts which took the
place of several bars, and resumed at a point it would have reached had
its continuity been unbroken) now received a more palpable check, in the
shape of "Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" from the crossing lane to Lower Mellstock, on
the right of the singer who had just emerged from the trees.
"Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" he answered, stopping and looking round, though with no
idea of seeing anything more than imagination pictured.
"Is that thee, young Dick Dewy?" came from the darkness.
"Ay, sure, Michael Mail."
"Then why not stop for fellow-craters--going to thy own father's house
too, as we be, and knowen us so well?"
Dick Dewy faced about and continued his tune in an under-whistle,
implying that the business of his mouth could not be checked at a
moment's notice by the placid emotion of friendship.
Having come more into the open he could now be seen rising against the
sky, his profile appearing on the light background like the portrait of a
gentleman in black cardboard. It assumed the form of a low-crowned hat,
an ordinary-shaped nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary neck, and ordinary
shoulders. What he consisted of further down was invisible from lack of
sky low enough to picture him on.
Shuffling, halting, irregular footsteps of various kinds were now heard
coming up the hill, and presently there emerged from the shade severally
five men of different ages and gaits, all of them working villagers of
the parish of Mellstock. They, too, had lost their rotundity with the
daylight, and advanced against the sky in flat outlines, which suggested
some processional design on Greek or Etruscan pottery. They represented
the chief portion of Mellstock parish choir.
The first was a bowed and bent man, who carried a fiddle under his arm,
and walked as if engaged in studying some subject connected with the
surface of the road. He was Michael Mail, the man who had hallooed to
Dick.
The next was Mr. Robert Penny, boot- and shoemaker; a little man, who,
though rather round-shouldered, walked as if that fact had not come to
his own knowledge, moving on with his back very hollow and his face fixed
on the north-east quarter of the heavens before him, so that his lower
waist-coat-buttons came first, and then the remainder of his figure. His
features were invisible; yet when he occasionally looked round, two faint
moons of light gleamed for an instant from the precincts of his eyes,
denoting that he wore spectacles of a circular form.
The third was Elias Spinks, who walked perpendicularly and dramatically.
The fourth outline was Joseph Bowman's, who had now no distinctive
appearance beyond that of a human being. Finally came a weak lath-like
form, trotting and stumbling along with one shoulder forward and his head
inclined to the left, his arms dangling nervelessly in the wind as if
they were empty sleeves. This was Thomas Leaf.
"Where be the boys?" said Dick to this somewhat indifferently-matched
assembly.
The eldest of the group, Michael Mail, cleared his throat from a great
depth.
"We told them to keep back at home for a time, thinken they wouldn't be
wanted yet awhile; and we could choose the tuens, and so on."
"Father and grandfather William have expected ye a little sooner. I have
just been for a run round by Ewelease Stile and Hollow Hill to warm my
feet."
"To be sure father did! To be sure 'a did expect us--to taste the little
barrel beyond compare that he's going to tap."
"'Od rabbit it all! Never heard a word of it!" said Mr. Penny, gleams of
delight appearing upon his spectacle-glasses, Dick meanwhile singing
parenthetically--
"The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go."
"Neighbours, there's time enough to drink a sight of drink now afore
bedtime?" said Mail.
"True, true--time enough to get as drunk as lords!" replied Bowman
cheerfully.
This opinion being taken as convincing they all advanced between the
varying hedges and the trees dotting them here and there, kicking their
toes occasionally among the crumpled leaves. Soon appeared glimmering
indications of the few cottages forming the small hamlet of Upper
Mellstock for which they were bound, whilst the faint sound of church-
bells ringing a Christmas peal could be heard floating over upon the
breeze from the direction of Longpuddle and Weatherbury parishes on the
other side of the hills. A little wicket admitted them to the garden,
and they proceeded up the path to Dick's house.
| Notes This first chapter is largely introductory. Hardy begins his description of the lovely Mellstock landscape in the very first paragraph of the novel. He also establishes the harmonious co- existence of the villagers with one another and with nature. In fact, the song that Dick Dewy is singing recalls the kinship between human life and the seasons. The structure of the novel will actually follow the seasons. The mood is immediately light and cheerful. The night is cold, crisp, and starry. Dick Dewy is obviously in a jovial mood as he sings a happy song. When he encounters other villagers, he is genuinely delighted to see them and tells them that his family eagerly awaits their arrival. The unusual physical characteristics of the rustic villagers are even humorously described by the author, adding to the light mood. There is a sense of festivity about everything, for the choir is gathering to have cider at the Dewy home and then proceeding to have their annual Christmas carol sing. This first chapter clearly establishes that Hardy is writing about a setting that he knows and loves. | analysis |
It was a long low cottage with a hipped roof of thatch, having dormer
windows breaking up into the eaves, a chimney standing in the middle of
the ridge and another at each end. The window-shutters were not yet
closed, and the fire- and candle-light within radiated forth upon the
thick bushes of box and laurestinus growing in clumps outside, and upon
the bare boughs of several codlin-trees hanging about in various
distorted shapes, the result of early training as espaliers combined with
careless climbing into their boughs in later years. The walls of the
dwelling were for the most part covered with creepers, though these were
rather beaten back from the doorway--a feature which was worn and
scratched by much passing in and out, giving it by day the appearance of
an old keyhole. Light streamed through the cracks and joints of
outbuildings a little way from the cottage, a sight which nourished a
fancy that the purpose of the erection must be rather to veil bright
attractions than to shelter unsightly necessaries. The noise of a beetle
and wedges and the splintering of wood was periodically heard from this
direction; and at some little distance further a steady regular munching
and the occasional scurr of a rope betokened a stable, and horses feeding
within it.
The choir stamped severally on the door-stone to shake from their boots
any fragment of earth or leaf adhering thereto, then entered the house
and looked around to survey the condition of things. Through the open
doorway of a small inner room on the right hand, of a character between
pantry and cellar, was Dick Dewy's father Reuben, by vocation a
"tranter," or irregular carrier. He was a stout florid man about forty
years of age, who surveyed people up and down when first making their
acquaintance, and generally smiled at the horizon or other distant object
during conversations with friends, walking about with a steady sway, and
turning out his toes very considerably. Being now occupied in bending
over a hogshead, that stood in the pantry ready horsed for the process of
broaching, he did not take the trouble to turn or raise his eyes at the
entry of his visitors, well knowing by their footsteps that they were the
expected old comrades.
The main room, on the left, was decked with bunches of holly and other
evergreens, and from the middle of the beam bisecting the ceiling hung
the mistletoe, of a size out of all proportion to the room, and extending
so low that it became necessary for a full-grown person to walk round it
in passing, or run the risk of entangling his hair. This apartment
contained Mrs. Dewy the tranter's wife, and the four remaining children,
Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley, graduating uniformly though at wide
stages from the age of sixteen to that of four years--the eldest of the
series being separated from Dick the firstborn by a nearly equal
interval.
Some circumstance had apparently caused much grief to Charley just
previous to the entry of the choir, and he had absently taken down a
small looking-glass, holding it before his face to learn how the human
countenance appeared when engaged in crying, which survey led him to
pause at the various points in each wail that were more than ordinarily
striking, for a thorough appreciation of the general effect. Bessy was
leaning against a chair, and glancing under the plaits about the waist of
the plaid frock she wore, to notice the original unfaded pattern of the
material as there preserved, her face bearing an expression of regret
that the brightness had passed away from the visible portions. Mrs. Dewy
sat in a brown settle by the side of the glowing wood fire--so glowing
that with a heedful compression of the lips she would now and then rise
and put her hand upon the hams and flitches of bacon lining the chimney,
to reassure herself that they were not being broiled instead of smoked--a
misfortune that had been known to happen now and then at Christmas-time.
"Hullo, my sonnies, here you be, then!" said Reuben Dewy at length,
standing up and blowing forth a vehement gust of breath. "How the blood
do puff up in anybody's head, to be sure, a-stooping like that! I was
just going out to gate to hark for ye." He then carefully began to wind
a strip of brown paper round a brass tap he held in his hand. "This in
the cask here is a drop o' the right sort" (tapping the cask); "'tis a
real drop o' cordial from the best picked apples--Sansoms, Stubbards,
Five-corners, and such-like--you d'mind the sort, Michael?" (Michael
nodded.) "And there's a sprinkling of they that grow down by the orchard-
rails--streaked ones--rail apples we d'call 'em, as 'tis by the rails
they grow, and not knowing the right name. The water-cider from 'em is
as good as most people's best cider is."
"Ay, and of the same make too," said Bowman. "'It rained when we wrung
it out, and the water got into it,' folk will say. But 'tis on'y an
excuse. Watered cider is too common among us."
"Yes, yes; too common it is!" said Spinks with an inward sigh, whilst his
eyes seemed to be looking at the case in an abstract form rather than at
the scene before him. "Such poor liquor do make a man's throat feel very
melancholy--and is a disgrace to the name of stimmilent."
"Come in, come in, and draw up to the fire; never mind your shoes," said
Mrs. Dewy, seeing that all except Dick had paused to wipe them upon the
door-mat. "I am glad that you've stepped up-along at last; and, Susan,
you run down to Grammer Kaytes's and see if you can borrow some larger
candles than these fourteens. Tommy Leaf, don't ye be afeard! Come and
sit here in the settle."
This was addressed to the young man before mentioned, consisting chiefly
of a human skeleton and a smock-frock, who was very awkward in his
movements, apparently on account of having grown so very fast that before
he had had time to get used to his height he was higher.
"Hee--hee--ay!" replied Leaf, letting his mouth continue to smile for
some time after his mind had done smiling, so that his teeth remained in
view as the most conspicuous members of his body.
"Here, Mr. Penny," resumed Mrs. Dewy, "you sit in this chair. And how's
your daughter, Mrs. Brownjohn?"
"Well, I suppose I must say pretty fair." He adjusted his spectacles a
quarter of an inch to the right. "But she'll be worse before she's
better, 'a b'lieve."
"Indeed--poor soul! And how many will that make in all, four or five?"
"Five; they've buried three. Yes, five; and she not much more than a
maid yet. She do know the multiplication table onmistakable well.
However, 'twas to be, and none can gainsay it."
Mrs. Dewy resigned Mr. Penny. "Wonder where your grandfather James is?"
she inquired of one of the children. "He said he'd drop in to-night."
"Out in fuel-house with grandfather William," said Jimmy.
"Now let's see what we can do," was heard spoken about this time by the
tranter in a private voice to the barrel, beside which he had again
established himself, and was stooping to cut away the cork.
"Reuben, don't make such a mess o' tapping that barrel as is mostly made
in this house," Mrs. Dewy cried from the fireplace. "I'd tap a hundred
without wasting more than you do in one. Such a squizzling and squirting
job as 'tis in your hands! There, he always was such a clumsy man
indoors."
"Ay, ay; I know you'd tap a hundred beautiful, Ann--I know you would; two
hundred, perhaps. But I can't promise. This is a' old cask, and the
wood's rotted away about the tap-hole. The husbird of a feller Sam
Lawson--that ever I should call'n such, now he's dead and gone, poor
heart!--took me in completely upon the feat of buying this cask. 'Reub,'
says he--'a always used to call me plain Reub, poor old heart!--'Reub,'
he said, says he, 'that there cask, Reub, is as good as new; yes, good as
new. 'Tis a wine-hogshead; the best port-wine in the commonwealth have
been in that there cask; and you shall have en for ten shillens,
Reub,'--'a said, says he--'he's worth twenty, ay, five-and-twenty, if
he's worth one; and an iron hoop or two put round en among the wood ones
will make en worth thirty shillens of any man's money, if--'"
"I think I should have used the eyes that Providence gave me to use afore
I paid any ten shillens for a jimcrack wine-barrel; a saint is sinner
enough not to be cheated. But 'tis like all your family was, so easy to
be deceived."
"That's as true as gospel of this member," said Reuben.
Mrs. Dewy began a smile at the answer, then altering her lips and
refolding them so that it was not a smile, commenced smoothing little
Bessy's hair; the tranter having meanwhile suddenly become oblivious to
conversation, occupying himself in a deliberate cutting and arrangement
of some more brown paper for the broaching operation.
"Ah, who can believe sellers!" said old Michael Mail in a
carefully-cautious voice, by way of tiding-over this critical point of
affairs.
"No one at all," said Joseph Bowman, in the tone of a man fully agreeing
with everybody.
"Ay," said Mail, in the tone of a man who did not agree with everybody as
a rule, though he did now; "I knowed a' auctioneering feller once--a very
friendly feller 'a was too. And so one hot day as I was walking down the
front street o' Casterbridge, jist below the King's Arms, I passed a'
open winder and see him inside, stuck upon his perch, a-selling off. I
jist nodded to en in a friendly way as I passed, and went my way, and
thought no more about it. Well, next day, as I was oilen my boots by
fuel-house door, if a letter didn't come wi' a bill charging me with a
feather-bed, bolster, and pillers, that I had bid for at Mr. Taylor's
sale. The slim-faced martel had knocked 'em down to me because I nodded
to en in my friendly way; and I had to pay for 'em too. Now, I hold that
that was coming it very close, Reuben?"
"'Twas close, there's no denying," said the general voice.
"Too close, 'twas," said Reuben, in the rear of the rest. "And as to Sam
Lawson--poor heart! now he's dead and gone too!--I'll warrant, that if so
be I've spent one hour in making hoops for that barrel, I've spent fifty,
first and last. That's one of my hoops"--touching it with his
elbow--"that's one of mine, and that, and that, and all these."
"Ah, Sam was a man," said Mr. Penny, contemplatively.
"Sam was!" said Bowman.
"Especially for a drap o' drink," said the tranter.
"Good, but not religious-good," suggested Mr. Penny.
The tranter nodded. Having at last made the tap and hole quite ready,
"Now then, Suze, bring a mug," he said. "Here's luck to us, my sonnies!"
The tap went in, and the cider immediately squirted out in a horizontal
shower over Reuben's hands, knees, and leggings, and into the eyes and
neck of Charley, who, having temporarily put off his grief under pressure
of more interesting proceedings, was squatting down and blinking near his
father.
"There 'tis again!" said Mrs. Dewy.
"Devil take the hole, the cask, and Sam Lawson too, that good cider
should be wasted like this!" exclaimed the tranter. "Your thumb! Lend
me your thumb, Michael! Ram it in here, Michael! I must get a bigger
tap, my sonnies."
"Idd it cold inthide te hole?" inquired Charley of Michael, as he
continued in a stooping posture with his thumb in the cork-hole.
"What wonderful odds and ends that chiel has in his head to be sure!"
Mrs. Dewy admiringly exclaimed from the distance. "I lay a wager that he
thinks more about how 'tis inside that barrel than in all the other parts
of the world put together."
All persons present put on a speaking countenance of admiration for the
cleverness alluded to, in the midst of which Reuben returned. The
operation was then satisfactorily performed; when Michael arose and
stretched his head to the extremest fraction of height that his body
would allow of, to re-straighten his back and shoulders--thrusting out
his arms and twisting his features to a mass of wrinkles to emphasize the
relief aquired. A quart or two of the beverage was then brought to
table, at which all the new arrivals reseated themselves with wide-spread
knees, their eyes meditatively seeking out any speck or knot in the board
upon which the gaze might precipitate itself.
"Whatever is father a-biding out in fuel-house so long for?" said the
tranter. "Never such a man as father for two things--cleaving up old
dead apple-tree wood and playing the bass-viol. 'A'd pass his life
between the two, that 'a would." He stepped to the door and opened it.
"Father!"
"Ay!" rang thinly from round the corner.
"Here's the barrel tapped, and we all a-waiting!"
A series of dull thuds, that had been heard without for some time past,
now ceased; and after the light of a lantern had passed the window and
made wheeling rays upon the ceiling inside the eldest of the Dewy family
appeared.
| The Dewy's house, a low-roofed cottage, has three chimneys and a thatched roof. The walls of the house are covered with creeping plants, and the door appears to be worn out from the coming and going of many people. A little away from the cottage is a building from which comes the sound of woodcutting. The sound of horses can also be heard. The men's church choir enters the house, wiping their boots clean on the doorstep. As they enter, they spy Dick's father, Reuben Dewy. Known to the townsfolk as the Tranter, Reuben, a stout, red-faced man of about forty, is busily engaged in opening a barrel of cider. He does not bother to look up when they enter, but he welcomes the men and tells them that the cider is made from the finest apples. The main room to the left of the cottage is decorated with a Christmas tree. The Tranter's wife and four of his children are gathered there; Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley are all between the ages of four and sixteen; Dick, the oldest, is twenty years old. Mrs. Dewy invites the choir to sit round the fire. She warmly asks Thomas Leaf to sit beside her and inquires about Mr. Penny's daughter, who is expecting her fifth baby. As Reuben is about to open the barrel, he remembers the deceased Sam Lawson, who had given him the cider. When the cider shoots out in a stream, he sends his daughter to get mugs and tells Michael to put his thumb over the hole while he retrieves a cork. The choir sits drinking around the table. Reuben wonders if his father, known as Grandfather William, is cutting wood or playing the violin. He goes to find him and ask him to join the party. | summary |
It was a long low cottage with a hipped roof of thatch, having dormer
windows breaking up into the eaves, a chimney standing in the middle of
the ridge and another at each end. The window-shutters were not yet
closed, and the fire- and candle-light within radiated forth upon the
thick bushes of box and laurestinus growing in clumps outside, and upon
the bare boughs of several codlin-trees hanging about in various
distorted shapes, the result of early training as espaliers combined with
careless climbing into their boughs in later years. The walls of the
dwelling were for the most part covered with creepers, though these were
rather beaten back from the doorway--a feature which was worn and
scratched by much passing in and out, giving it by day the appearance of
an old keyhole. Light streamed through the cracks and joints of
outbuildings a little way from the cottage, a sight which nourished a
fancy that the purpose of the erection must be rather to veil bright
attractions than to shelter unsightly necessaries. The noise of a beetle
and wedges and the splintering of wood was periodically heard from this
direction; and at some little distance further a steady regular munching
and the occasional scurr of a rope betokened a stable, and horses feeding
within it.
The choir stamped severally on the door-stone to shake from their boots
any fragment of earth or leaf adhering thereto, then entered the house
and looked around to survey the condition of things. Through the open
doorway of a small inner room on the right hand, of a character between
pantry and cellar, was Dick Dewy's father Reuben, by vocation a
"tranter," or irregular carrier. He was a stout florid man about forty
years of age, who surveyed people up and down when first making their
acquaintance, and generally smiled at the horizon or other distant object
during conversations with friends, walking about with a steady sway, and
turning out his toes very considerably. Being now occupied in bending
over a hogshead, that stood in the pantry ready horsed for the process of
broaching, he did not take the trouble to turn or raise his eyes at the
entry of his visitors, well knowing by their footsteps that they were the
expected old comrades.
The main room, on the left, was decked with bunches of holly and other
evergreens, and from the middle of the beam bisecting the ceiling hung
the mistletoe, of a size out of all proportion to the room, and extending
so low that it became necessary for a full-grown person to walk round it
in passing, or run the risk of entangling his hair. This apartment
contained Mrs. Dewy the tranter's wife, and the four remaining children,
Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley, graduating uniformly though at wide
stages from the age of sixteen to that of four years--the eldest of the
series being separated from Dick the firstborn by a nearly equal
interval.
Some circumstance had apparently caused much grief to Charley just
previous to the entry of the choir, and he had absently taken down a
small looking-glass, holding it before his face to learn how the human
countenance appeared when engaged in crying, which survey led him to
pause at the various points in each wail that were more than ordinarily
striking, for a thorough appreciation of the general effect. Bessy was
leaning against a chair, and glancing under the plaits about the waist of
the plaid frock she wore, to notice the original unfaded pattern of the
material as there preserved, her face bearing an expression of regret
that the brightness had passed away from the visible portions. Mrs. Dewy
sat in a brown settle by the side of the glowing wood fire--so glowing
that with a heedful compression of the lips she would now and then rise
and put her hand upon the hams and flitches of bacon lining the chimney,
to reassure herself that they were not being broiled instead of smoked--a
misfortune that had been known to happen now and then at Christmas-time.
"Hullo, my sonnies, here you be, then!" said Reuben Dewy at length,
standing up and blowing forth a vehement gust of breath. "How the blood
do puff up in anybody's head, to be sure, a-stooping like that! I was
just going out to gate to hark for ye." He then carefully began to wind
a strip of brown paper round a brass tap he held in his hand. "This in
the cask here is a drop o' the right sort" (tapping the cask); "'tis a
real drop o' cordial from the best picked apples--Sansoms, Stubbards,
Five-corners, and such-like--you d'mind the sort, Michael?" (Michael
nodded.) "And there's a sprinkling of they that grow down by the orchard-
rails--streaked ones--rail apples we d'call 'em, as 'tis by the rails
they grow, and not knowing the right name. The water-cider from 'em is
as good as most people's best cider is."
"Ay, and of the same make too," said Bowman. "'It rained when we wrung
it out, and the water got into it,' folk will say. But 'tis on'y an
excuse. Watered cider is too common among us."
"Yes, yes; too common it is!" said Spinks with an inward sigh, whilst his
eyes seemed to be looking at the case in an abstract form rather than at
the scene before him. "Such poor liquor do make a man's throat feel very
melancholy--and is a disgrace to the name of stimmilent."
"Come in, come in, and draw up to the fire; never mind your shoes," said
Mrs. Dewy, seeing that all except Dick had paused to wipe them upon the
door-mat. "I am glad that you've stepped up-along at last; and, Susan,
you run down to Grammer Kaytes's and see if you can borrow some larger
candles than these fourteens. Tommy Leaf, don't ye be afeard! Come and
sit here in the settle."
This was addressed to the young man before mentioned, consisting chiefly
of a human skeleton and a smock-frock, who was very awkward in his
movements, apparently on account of having grown so very fast that before
he had had time to get used to his height he was higher.
"Hee--hee--ay!" replied Leaf, letting his mouth continue to smile for
some time after his mind had done smiling, so that his teeth remained in
view as the most conspicuous members of his body.
"Here, Mr. Penny," resumed Mrs. Dewy, "you sit in this chair. And how's
your daughter, Mrs. Brownjohn?"
"Well, I suppose I must say pretty fair." He adjusted his spectacles a
quarter of an inch to the right. "But she'll be worse before she's
better, 'a b'lieve."
"Indeed--poor soul! And how many will that make in all, four or five?"
"Five; they've buried three. Yes, five; and she not much more than a
maid yet. She do know the multiplication table onmistakable well.
However, 'twas to be, and none can gainsay it."
Mrs. Dewy resigned Mr. Penny. "Wonder where your grandfather James is?"
she inquired of one of the children. "He said he'd drop in to-night."
"Out in fuel-house with grandfather William," said Jimmy.
"Now let's see what we can do," was heard spoken about this time by the
tranter in a private voice to the barrel, beside which he had again
established himself, and was stooping to cut away the cork.
"Reuben, don't make such a mess o' tapping that barrel as is mostly made
in this house," Mrs. Dewy cried from the fireplace. "I'd tap a hundred
without wasting more than you do in one. Such a squizzling and squirting
job as 'tis in your hands! There, he always was such a clumsy man
indoors."
"Ay, ay; I know you'd tap a hundred beautiful, Ann--I know you would; two
hundred, perhaps. But I can't promise. This is a' old cask, and the
wood's rotted away about the tap-hole. The husbird of a feller Sam
Lawson--that ever I should call'n such, now he's dead and gone, poor
heart!--took me in completely upon the feat of buying this cask. 'Reub,'
says he--'a always used to call me plain Reub, poor old heart!--'Reub,'
he said, says he, 'that there cask, Reub, is as good as new; yes, good as
new. 'Tis a wine-hogshead; the best port-wine in the commonwealth have
been in that there cask; and you shall have en for ten shillens,
Reub,'--'a said, says he--'he's worth twenty, ay, five-and-twenty, if
he's worth one; and an iron hoop or two put round en among the wood ones
will make en worth thirty shillens of any man's money, if--'"
"I think I should have used the eyes that Providence gave me to use afore
I paid any ten shillens for a jimcrack wine-barrel; a saint is sinner
enough not to be cheated. But 'tis like all your family was, so easy to
be deceived."
"That's as true as gospel of this member," said Reuben.
Mrs. Dewy began a smile at the answer, then altering her lips and
refolding them so that it was not a smile, commenced smoothing little
Bessy's hair; the tranter having meanwhile suddenly become oblivious to
conversation, occupying himself in a deliberate cutting and arrangement
of some more brown paper for the broaching operation.
"Ah, who can believe sellers!" said old Michael Mail in a
carefully-cautious voice, by way of tiding-over this critical point of
affairs.
"No one at all," said Joseph Bowman, in the tone of a man fully agreeing
with everybody.
"Ay," said Mail, in the tone of a man who did not agree with everybody as
a rule, though he did now; "I knowed a' auctioneering feller once--a very
friendly feller 'a was too. And so one hot day as I was walking down the
front street o' Casterbridge, jist below the King's Arms, I passed a'
open winder and see him inside, stuck upon his perch, a-selling off. I
jist nodded to en in a friendly way as I passed, and went my way, and
thought no more about it. Well, next day, as I was oilen my boots by
fuel-house door, if a letter didn't come wi' a bill charging me with a
feather-bed, bolster, and pillers, that I had bid for at Mr. Taylor's
sale. The slim-faced martel had knocked 'em down to me because I nodded
to en in my friendly way; and I had to pay for 'em too. Now, I hold that
that was coming it very close, Reuben?"
"'Twas close, there's no denying," said the general voice.
"Too close, 'twas," said Reuben, in the rear of the rest. "And as to Sam
Lawson--poor heart! now he's dead and gone too!--I'll warrant, that if so
be I've spent one hour in making hoops for that barrel, I've spent fifty,
first and last. That's one of my hoops"--touching it with his
elbow--"that's one of mine, and that, and that, and all these."
"Ah, Sam was a man," said Mr. Penny, contemplatively.
"Sam was!" said Bowman.
"Especially for a drap o' drink," said the tranter.
"Good, but not religious-good," suggested Mr. Penny.
The tranter nodded. Having at last made the tap and hole quite ready,
"Now then, Suze, bring a mug," he said. "Here's luck to us, my sonnies!"
The tap went in, and the cider immediately squirted out in a horizontal
shower over Reuben's hands, knees, and leggings, and into the eyes and
neck of Charley, who, having temporarily put off his grief under pressure
of more interesting proceedings, was squatting down and blinking near his
father.
"There 'tis again!" said Mrs. Dewy.
"Devil take the hole, the cask, and Sam Lawson too, that good cider
should be wasted like this!" exclaimed the tranter. "Your thumb! Lend
me your thumb, Michael! Ram it in here, Michael! I must get a bigger
tap, my sonnies."
"Idd it cold inthide te hole?" inquired Charley of Michael, as he
continued in a stooping posture with his thumb in the cork-hole.
"What wonderful odds and ends that chiel has in his head to be sure!"
Mrs. Dewy admiringly exclaimed from the distance. "I lay a wager that he
thinks more about how 'tis inside that barrel than in all the other parts
of the world put together."
All persons present put on a speaking countenance of admiration for the
cleverness alluded to, in the midst of which Reuben returned. The
operation was then satisfactorily performed; when Michael arose and
stretched his head to the extremest fraction of height that his body
would allow of, to re-straighten his back and shoulders--thrusting out
his arms and twisting his features to a mass of wrinkles to emphasize the
relief aquired. A quart or two of the beverage was then brought to
table, at which all the new arrivals reseated themselves with wide-spread
knees, their eyes meditatively seeking out any speck or knot in the board
upon which the gaze might precipitate itself.
"Whatever is father a-biding out in fuel-house so long for?" said the
tranter. "Never such a man as father for two things--cleaving up old
dead apple-tree wood and playing the bass-viol. 'A'd pass his life
between the two, that 'a would." He stepped to the door and opened it.
"Father!"
"Ay!" rang thinly from round the corner.
"Here's the barrel tapped, and we all a-waiting!"
A series of dull thuds, that had been heard without for some time past,
now ceased; and after the light of a lantern had passed the window and
made wheeling rays upon the ceiling inside the eldest of the Dewy family
appeared.
| Notes In this chapter, traditional rustic hospitality and family life are introduced. The Dewy home is warmly described in careful detail. Even though the Dewys are not wealthy, they are a close family unit. They have put up a Christmas tree in the big room of their picturesque cottage and have gathered around it, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the choir. Mrs. Dewy and four of her children are also eager for the return of Dick, the oldest son. As they wait, Reuben Dewy, Dick's father, is attempting to open a barrel of cider, which he plans to share with the men from the church choir. When the choir members enter, they are warmly welcomed with familiarity, even though Reuben never looks up from the task at hand. He feels totally comfortable with these rustics and feels no need to be formal. The group gathers around the table to enjoy the cider and good-humored conversation about their lives, past and present; it is obvious that they like and enjoy one another. When Reuben realizes that his own father, Grandfather William, has not yet joined them, he calls him to the party. In totality, the chapter is a warm picture of close community filled with a festive mood. | analysis |
William Dewy--otherwise grandfather William--was now about seventy; yet
an ardent vitality still preserved a warm and roughened bloom upon his
face, which reminded gardeners of the sunny side of a ripe
ribstone-pippin; though a narrow strip of forehead, that was protected
from the weather by lying above the line of his hat-brim, seemed to
belong to some town man, so gentlemanly was its whiteness. His was a
humorous and kindly nature, not unmixed with a frequent melancholy; and
he had a firm religious faith. But to his neighbours he had no character
in particular. If they saw him pass by their windows when they had been
bottling off old mead, or when they had just been called long-headed men
who might do anything in the world if they chose, they thought concerning
him, "Ah, there's that good-hearted man--open as a child!" If they saw
him just after losing a shilling or half-a-crown, or accidentally letting
fall a piece of crockery, they thought, "There's that poor weak-minded
man Dewy again! Ah, he's never done much in the world either!" If he
passed when fortune neither smiled nor frowned on them, they merely
thought him old William Dewy.
"Ah, so's--here you be!--Ah, Michael and Joseph and John--and you too,
Leaf! a merry Christmas all! We shall have a rare log-wood fire
directly, Reub, to reckon by the toughness of the job I had in cleaving
'em." As he spoke he threw down an armful of logs which fell in the
chimney-corner with a rumble, and looked at them with something of the
admiring enmity he would have bestowed on living people who had been very
obstinate in holding their own. "Come in, grandfather James."
Old James (grandfather on the maternal side) had simply called as a
visitor. He lived in a cottage by himself, and many people considered
him a miser; some, rather slovenly in his habits. He now came forward
from behind grandfather William, and his stooping figure formed a well-
illuminated picture as he passed towards the fire-place. Being by trade
a mason, he wore a long linen apron reaching almost to his toes, corduroy
breeches and gaiters, which, together with his boots, graduated in tints
of whitish-brown by constant friction against lime and stone. He also
wore a very stiff fustian coat, having folds at the elbows and shoulders
as unvarying in their arrangement as those in a pair of bellows: the
ridges and the projecting parts of the coat collectively exhibiting a
shade different from that of the hollows, which were lined with small
ditch-like accumulations of stone and mortar-dust. The extremely large
side-pockets, sheltered beneath wide flaps, bulged out convexly whether
empty or full; and as he was often engaged to work at buildings far
away--his breakfasts and dinners being eaten in a strange chimney-corner,
by a garden wall, on a heap of stones, or walking along the road--he
carried in these pockets a small tin canister of butter, a small canister
of sugar, a small canister of tea, a paper of salt, and a paper of
pepper; the bread, cheese, and meat, forming the substance of his meals,
hanging up behind him in his basket among the hammers and chisels. If a
passer-by looked hard at him when he was drawing forth any of these, "My
buttery," he said, with a pinched smile.
"Better try over number seventy-eight before we start, I suppose?" said
William, pointing to a heap of old Christmas-carol books on a side table.
"Wi' all my heart," said the choir generally.
"Number seventy-eight was always a teaser--always. I can mind him ever
since I was growing up a hard boy-chap."
"But he's a good tune, and worth a mint o' practice," said Michael.
"He is; though I've been mad enough wi' that tune at times to seize en
and tear en all to linnit. Ay, he's a splendid carrel--there's no
denying that."
"The first line is well enough," said Mr. Spinks; "but when you come to
'O, thou man,' you make a mess o't."
"We'll have another go into en, and see what we can make of the martel.
Half-an-hour's hammering at en will conquer the toughness of en; I'll
warn it."
"'Od rabbit it all!" said Mr. Penny, interrupting with a flash of his
spectacles, and at the same time clawing at something in the depths of a
large side-pocket. "If so be I hadn't been as scatter-brained and
thirtingill as a chiel, I should have called at the schoolhouse wi' a
boot as I cam up along. Whatever is coming to me I really can't estimate
at all!"
"The brain has its weaknesses," murmured Mr. Spinks, waving his head
ominously. Mr. Spinks was considered to be a scholar, having once kept a
night-school, and always spoke up to that level.
"Well, I must call with en the first thing to-morrow. And I'll empt my
pocket o' this last too, if you don't mind, Mrs. Dewy." He drew forth a
last, and placed it on a table at his elbow. The eyes of three or four
followed it.
"Well," said the shoemaker, seeming to perceive that the interest the
object had excited was greater than he had anticipated, and warranted the
last's being taken up again and exhibited; "now, whose foot do ye suppose
this last was made for? It was made for Geoffrey Day's father, over at
Yalbury Wood. Ah, many's the pair o' boots he've had off the last! Well,
when 'a died, I used the last for Geoffrey, and have ever since, though a
little doctoring was wanted to make it do. Yes, a very queer natured
last it is now, 'a b'lieve," he continued, turning it over caressingly.
"Now, you notice that there" (pointing to a lump of leather bradded to
the toe), "that's a very bad bunion that he've had ever since 'a was a
boy. Now, this remarkable large piece" (pointing to a patch nailed to
the side), "shows a' accident he received by the tread of a horse, that
squashed his foot a'most to a pomace. The horseshoe cam full-butt on
this point, you see. And so I've just been over to Geoffrey's, to know
if he wanted his bunion altered or made bigger in the new pair I'm
making."
During the latter part of this speech, Mr. Penny's left hand wandered
towards the cider-cup, as if the hand had no connection with the person
speaking; and bringing his sentence to an abrupt close, all but the
extreme margin of the bootmaker's face was eclipsed by the circular brim
of the vessel.
"However, I was going to say," continued Penny, putting down the cup, "I
ought to have called at the school"--here he went groping again in the
depths of his pocket--"to leave this without fail, though I suppose the
first thing to-morrow will do."
He now drew forth and placed upon the table a boot--small, light, and
prettily shaped--upon the heel of which he had been operating.
"The new schoolmistress's!"
"Ay, no less, Miss Fancy Day; as neat a little figure of fun as ever I
see, and just husband-high."
"Never Geoffrey's daughter Fancy?" said Bowman, as all glances present
converged like wheel-spokes upon the boot in the centre of them.
"Yes, sure," resumed Mr. Penny, regarding the boot as if that alone were
his auditor; "'tis she that's come here schoolmistress. You knowed his
daughter was in training?"
"Strange, isn't it, for her to be here Christmas night, Master Penny?"
"Yes; but here she is, 'a b'lieve."
"I know how she comes here--so I do!" chirruped one of the children.
"Why?" Dick inquired, with subtle interest.
"Pa'son Maybold was afraid he couldn't manage us all to-morrow at the
dinner, and he talked o' getting her jist to come over and help him hand
about the plates, and see we didn't make pigs of ourselves; and that's
what she's come for!"
"And that's the boot, then," continued its mender imaginatively, "that
she'll walk to church in to-morrow morning. I don't care to mend boots I
don't make; but there's no knowing what it may lead to, and her father
always comes to me."
There, between the cider-mug and the candle, stood this interesting
receptacle of the little unknown's foot; and a very pretty boot it was. A
character, in fact--the flexible bend at the instep, the rounded
localities of the small nestling toes, scratches from careless scampers
now forgotten--all, as repeated in the tell-tale leather, evidencing a
nature and a bias. Dick surveyed it with a delicate feeling that he had
no right to do so without having first asked the owner of the foot's
permission.
"Now, neighbours, though no common eye can see it," the shoemaker went
on, "a man in the trade can see the likeness between this boot and that
last, although that is so deformed as hardly to recall one of God's
creatures, and this is one of as pretty a pair as you'd get for ten-and-
sixpence in Casterbridge. To you, nothing; but 'tis father's voot and
daughter's voot to me, as plain as houses."
"I don't doubt there's a likeness, Master Penny--a mild likeness--a
fantastical likeness," said Spinks. "But I han't got imagination enough
to see it, perhaps."
Mr. Penny adjusted his spectacles.
"Now, I'll tell ye what happened to me once on this very point. You used
to know Johnson the dairyman, William?"
"Ay, sure; I did."
"Well, 'twasn't opposite his house, but a little lower down--by his
paddock, in front o' Parkmaze Pool. I was a-bearing across towards
Bloom's End, and lo and behold, there was a man just brought out o' the
Pool, dead; he had un'rayed for a dip, but not being able to pitch it
just there had gone in flop over his head. Men looked at en; women
looked at en; children looked at en; nobody knowed en. He was covered
wi' a sheet; but I catched sight of his voot, just showing out as they
carried en along. 'I don't care what name that man went by,' I said, in
my way, 'but he's John Woodward's brother; I can swear to the family
voot.' At that very moment up comes John Woodward, weeping and teaving,
'I've lost my brother! I've lost my brother!'"
"Only to think of that!" said Mrs. Dewy.
"'Tis well enough to know this foot and that foot," said Mr. Spinks.
"'Tis long-headed, in fact, as far as feet do go. I know little, 'tis
true--I say no more; but show me a man's foot, and I'll tell you that
man's heart."
"You must be a cleverer feller, then, than mankind in jineral," said the
tranter.
"Well, that's nothing for me to speak of," returned Mr. Spinks. "A man
lives and learns. Maybe I've read a leaf or two in my time. I don't
wish to say anything large, mind you; but nevertheless, maybe I have."
"Yes, I know," said Michael soothingly, "and all the parish knows, that
ye've read sommat of everything a'most, and have been a great filler of
young folks' brains. Learning's a worthy thing, and ye've got it, Master
Spinks."
"I make no boast, though I may have read and thought a little; and I
know--it may be from much perusing, but I make no boast--that by the time
a man's head is finished, 'tis almost time for him to creep underground.
I am over forty-five."
Mr. Spinks emitted a look to signify that if his head was not finished,
nobody's head ever could be.
"Talk of knowing people by their feet!" said Reuben. "Rot me, my
sonnies, then, if I can tell what a man is from all his members put
together, oftentimes."
"But still, look is a good deal," observed grandfather William absently,
moving and balancing his head till the tip of grandfather James's nose
was exactly in a right line with William's eye and the mouth of a
miniature cavern he was discerning in the fire. "By the way," he
continued in a fresher voice, and looking up, "that young crater, the
schoolmis'ess, must be sung to to-night wi' the rest? If her ear is as
fine as her face, we shall have enough to do to be up-sides with her."
"What about her face?" said young Dewy.
"Well, as to that," Mr. Spinks replied, "'tis a face you can hardly
gainsay. A very good pink face, as far as that do go. Still, only a
face, when all is said and done."
"Come, come, Elias Spinks, say she's a pretty maid, and have done wi'
her," said the tranter, again preparing to visit the cider-barrel.
| Even though Grandfather William is seventy, he is still very active although sometimes weak-minded. His bright face would remind a gardener of the "sunny side of a ripe ribstone - pippin." William, a religious man, is also very good-hearted. When he joins the party, he wishes everyone a merry Christmas and throws an armful of logs on the fire. Before coming in, William has invited Grandfather James, Mrs. Dewy's father, to join them. He is a miserly stone mason who lives alone in his cottage. Grandfather William and the choir talk about which carols they will sing, for they need to practice in order to do well. Robert Penny, the local shoemaker, interrupts to exclaim that he has forgotten to deliver a pair of boots to the schoolhouse; he curses his weak-mindedness in forgetting important matters. Seeing that the mention of the boots has generated greater interest than expected, Penny explains that he has made boots for Geoffrey Day, Geoffrey's father, and Geoffrey's sister, Fancy Day. The boots that he has forgotten to deliver are the ones for Miss Day, who wanted to wear them to church the next morning. Talk turns to the new schoolmistress, whom they call "a figure of fun" and "just husband-high." Penny then tells the story of John Woodward's brother. When he drowned, no one could identify the body; but Penny was able to identify his boots. Spinks, considered the town scholar and a good teacher, says that he can identify the ways of a man's heart from his feet. Reuben expresses surprise at the fact that a person's character could be read from his feet. Grandfather William again turns the talk to the carol sing. He wonders whether they should sing for the new schoolmistress. Dick Dewy's interest is aroused because he has heard that Fancy Day is young and beautiful. | summary |
William Dewy--otherwise grandfather William--was now about seventy; yet
an ardent vitality still preserved a warm and roughened bloom upon his
face, which reminded gardeners of the sunny side of a ripe
ribstone-pippin; though a narrow strip of forehead, that was protected
from the weather by lying above the line of his hat-brim, seemed to
belong to some town man, so gentlemanly was its whiteness. His was a
humorous and kindly nature, not unmixed with a frequent melancholy; and
he had a firm religious faith. But to his neighbours he had no character
in particular. If they saw him pass by their windows when they had been
bottling off old mead, or when they had just been called long-headed men
who might do anything in the world if they chose, they thought concerning
him, "Ah, there's that good-hearted man--open as a child!" If they saw
him just after losing a shilling or half-a-crown, or accidentally letting
fall a piece of crockery, they thought, "There's that poor weak-minded
man Dewy again! Ah, he's never done much in the world either!" If he
passed when fortune neither smiled nor frowned on them, they merely
thought him old William Dewy.
"Ah, so's--here you be!--Ah, Michael and Joseph and John--and you too,
Leaf! a merry Christmas all! We shall have a rare log-wood fire
directly, Reub, to reckon by the toughness of the job I had in cleaving
'em." As he spoke he threw down an armful of logs which fell in the
chimney-corner with a rumble, and looked at them with something of the
admiring enmity he would have bestowed on living people who had been very
obstinate in holding their own. "Come in, grandfather James."
Old James (grandfather on the maternal side) had simply called as a
visitor. He lived in a cottage by himself, and many people considered
him a miser; some, rather slovenly in his habits. He now came forward
from behind grandfather William, and his stooping figure formed a well-
illuminated picture as he passed towards the fire-place. Being by trade
a mason, he wore a long linen apron reaching almost to his toes, corduroy
breeches and gaiters, which, together with his boots, graduated in tints
of whitish-brown by constant friction against lime and stone. He also
wore a very stiff fustian coat, having folds at the elbows and shoulders
as unvarying in their arrangement as those in a pair of bellows: the
ridges and the projecting parts of the coat collectively exhibiting a
shade different from that of the hollows, which were lined with small
ditch-like accumulations of stone and mortar-dust. The extremely large
side-pockets, sheltered beneath wide flaps, bulged out convexly whether
empty or full; and as he was often engaged to work at buildings far
away--his breakfasts and dinners being eaten in a strange chimney-corner,
by a garden wall, on a heap of stones, or walking along the road--he
carried in these pockets a small tin canister of butter, a small canister
of sugar, a small canister of tea, a paper of salt, and a paper of
pepper; the bread, cheese, and meat, forming the substance of his meals,
hanging up behind him in his basket among the hammers and chisels. If a
passer-by looked hard at him when he was drawing forth any of these, "My
buttery," he said, with a pinched smile.
"Better try over number seventy-eight before we start, I suppose?" said
William, pointing to a heap of old Christmas-carol books on a side table.
"Wi' all my heart," said the choir generally.
"Number seventy-eight was always a teaser--always. I can mind him ever
since I was growing up a hard boy-chap."
"But he's a good tune, and worth a mint o' practice," said Michael.
"He is; though I've been mad enough wi' that tune at times to seize en
and tear en all to linnit. Ay, he's a splendid carrel--there's no
denying that."
"The first line is well enough," said Mr. Spinks; "but when you come to
'O, thou man,' you make a mess o't."
"We'll have another go into en, and see what we can make of the martel.
Half-an-hour's hammering at en will conquer the toughness of en; I'll
warn it."
"'Od rabbit it all!" said Mr. Penny, interrupting with a flash of his
spectacles, and at the same time clawing at something in the depths of a
large side-pocket. "If so be I hadn't been as scatter-brained and
thirtingill as a chiel, I should have called at the schoolhouse wi' a
boot as I cam up along. Whatever is coming to me I really can't estimate
at all!"
"The brain has its weaknesses," murmured Mr. Spinks, waving his head
ominously. Mr. Spinks was considered to be a scholar, having once kept a
night-school, and always spoke up to that level.
"Well, I must call with en the first thing to-morrow. And I'll empt my
pocket o' this last too, if you don't mind, Mrs. Dewy." He drew forth a
last, and placed it on a table at his elbow. The eyes of three or four
followed it.
"Well," said the shoemaker, seeming to perceive that the interest the
object had excited was greater than he had anticipated, and warranted the
last's being taken up again and exhibited; "now, whose foot do ye suppose
this last was made for? It was made for Geoffrey Day's father, over at
Yalbury Wood. Ah, many's the pair o' boots he've had off the last! Well,
when 'a died, I used the last for Geoffrey, and have ever since, though a
little doctoring was wanted to make it do. Yes, a very queer natured
last it is now, 'a b'lieve," he continued, turning it over caressingly.
"Now, you notice that there" (pointing to a lump of leather bradded to
the toe), "that's a very bad bunion that he've had ever since 'a was a
boy. Now, this remarkable large piece" (pointing to a patch nailed to
the side), "shows a' accident he received by the tread of a horse, that
squashed his foot a'most to a pomace. The horseshoe cam full-butt on
this point, you see. And so I've just been over to Geoffrey's, to know
if he wanted his bunion altered or made bigger in the new pair I'm
making."
During the latter part of this speech, Mr. Penny's left hand wandered
towards the cider-cup, as if the hand had no connection with the person
speaking; and bringing his sentence to an abrupt close, all but the
extreme margin of the bootmaker's face was eclipsed by the circular brim
of the vessel.
"However, I was going to say," continued Penny, putting down the cup, "I
ought to have called at the school"--here he went groping again in the
depths of his pocket--"to leave this without fail, though I suppose the
first thing to-morrow will do."
He now drew forth and placed upon the table a boot--small, light, and
prettily shaped--upon the heel of which he had been operating.
"The new schoolmistress's!"
"Ay, no less, Miss Fancy Day; as neat a little figure of fun as ever I
see, and just husband-high."
"Never Geoffrey's daughter Fancy?" said Bowman, as all glances present
converged like wheel-spokes upon the boot in the centre of them.
"Yes, sure," resumed Mr. Penny, regarding the boot as if that alone were
his auditor; "'tis she that's come here schoolmistress. You knowed his
daughter was in training?"
"Strange, isn't it, for her to be here Christmas night, Master Penny?"
"Yes; but here she is, 'a b'lieve."
"I know how she comes here--so I do!" chirruped one of the children.
"Why?" Dick inquired, with subtle interest.
"Pa'son Maybold was afraid he couldn't manage us all to-morrow at the
dinner, and he talked o' getting her jist to come over and help him hand
about the plates, and see we didn't make pigs of ourselves; and that's
what she's come for!"
"And that's the boot, then," continued its mender imaginatively, "that
she'll walk to church in to-morrow morning. I don't care to mend boots I
don't make; but there's no knowing what it may lead to, and her father
always comes to me."
There, between the cider-mug and the candle, stood this interesting
receptacle of the little unknown's foot; and a very pretty boot it was. A
character, in fact--the flexible bend at the instep, the rounded
localities of the small nestling toes, scratches from careless scampers
now forgotten--all, as repeated in the tell-tale leather, evidencing a
nature and a bias. Dick surveyed it with a delicate feeling that he had
no right to do so without having first asked the owner of the foot's
permission.
"Now, neighbours, though no common eye can see it," the shoemaker went
on, "a man in the trade can see the likeness between this boot and that
last, although that is so deformed as hardly to recall one of God's
creatures, and this is one of as pretty a pair as you'd get for ten-and-
sixpence in Casterbridge. To you, nothing; but 'tis father's voot and
daughter's voot to me, as plain as houses."
"I don't doubt there's a likeness, Master Penny--a mild likeness--a
fantastical likeness," said Spinks. "But I han't got imagination enough
to see it, perhaps."
Mr. Penny adjusted his spectacles.
"Now, I'll tell ye what happened to me once on this very point. You used
to know Johnson the dairyman, William?"
"Ay, sure; I did."
"Well, 'twasn't opposite his house, but a little lower down--by his
paddock, in front o' Parkmaze Pool. I was a-bearing across towards
Bloom's End, and lo and behold, there was a man just brought out o' the
Pool, dead; he had un'rayed for a dip, but not being able to pitch it
just there had gone in flop over his head. Men looked at en; women
looked at en; children looked at en; nobody knowed en. He was covered
wi' a sheet; but I catched sight of his voot, just showing out as they
carried en along. 'I don't care what name that man went by,' I said, in
my way, 'but he's John Woodward's brother; I can swear to the family
voot.' At that very moment up comes John Woodward, weeping and teaving,
'I've lost my brother! I've lost my brother!'"
"Only to think of that!" said Mrs. Dewy.
"'Tis well enough to know this foot and that foot," said Mr. Spinks.
"'Tis long-headed, in fact, as far as feet do go. I know little, 'tis
true--I say no more; but show me a man's foot, and I'll tell you that
man's heart."
"You must be a cleverer feller, then, than mankind in jineral," said the
tranter.
"Well, that's nothing for me to speak of," returned Mr. Spinks. "A man
lives and learns. Maybe I've read a leaf or two in my time. I don't
wish to say anything large, mind you; but nevertheless, maybe I have."
"Yes, I know," said Michael soothingly, "and all the parish knows, that
ye've read sommat of everything a'most, and have been a great filler of
young folks' brains. Learning's a worthy thing, and ye've got it, Master
Spinks."
"I make no boast, though I may have read and thought a little; and I
know--it may be from much perusing, but I make no boast--that by the time
a man's head is finished, 'tis almost time for him to creep underground.
I am over forty-five."
Mr. Spinks emitted a look to signify that if his head was not finished,
nobody's head ever could be.
"Talk of knowing people by their feet!" said Reuben. "Rot me, my
sonnies, then, if I can tell what a man is from all his members put
together, oftentimes."
"But still, look is a good deal," observed grandfather William absently,
moving and balancing his head till the tip of grandfather James's nose
was exactly in a right line with William's eye and the mouth of a
miniature cavern he was discerning in the fire. "By the way," he
continued in a fresher voice, and looking up, "that young crater, the
schoolmis'ess, must be sung to to-night wi' the rest? If her ear is as
fine as her face, we shall have enough to do to be up-sides with her."
"What about her face?" said young Dewy.
"Well, as to that," Mr. Spinks replied, "'tis a face you can hardly
gainsay. A very good pink face, as far as that do go. Still, only a
face, when all is said and done."
"Come, come, Elias Spinks, say she's a pretty maid, and have done wi'
her," said the tranter, again preparing to visit the cider-barrel.
| Notes In this chapter the Mellstock rustics are brought to life through their conversation and the stories that they tell. They perform an almost choric function as they give information on various characters and events. Penny's discussion on boot making and his digression on John Woodward's brother are very interesting and earthy, lending realism to the dialogue. The discussion of Fancy Day is humorous, but significant, since she will become the protagonist of the story and the object of Dick's affection. Much time is spent in the description of Grandfather William, Reuben's father. He is a kind-hearted man of seventy; although he is still very active, he is often forgetful. His cheerfulness is a sharp contrast to Mrs. Dewy's father, Grandfather James, who is a miserly loner. | analysis |
Ralph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless he knocked at his
mother's door (at a quarter to seven) with a good deal of eagerness.
Even philosophers have their preferences, and it must be admitted
that of his progenitors his father ministered most to his sense of the
sweetness of filial dependence. His father, as he had often said to
himself, was the more motherly; his mother, on the other hand, was
paternal, and even, according to the slang of the day, gubernatorial.
She was nevertheless very fond of her only child and had always insisted
on his spending three months of the year with her. Ralph rendered
perfect justice to her affection and knew that in her thoughts and her
thoroughly arranged and servanted life his turn always came after the
other nearest subjects of her solicitude, the various punctualities of
performance of the workers of her will. He found her completely dressed
for dinner, but she embraced her boy with her gloved hands and made
him sit on the sofa beside her. She enquired scrupulously about her
husband's health and about the young man's own, and, receiving no
very brilliant account of either, remarked that she was more than ever
convinced of her wisdom in not exposing herself to the English climate.
In this case she also might have given way. Ralph smiled at the idea of
his mother's giving way, but made no point of reminding her that his
own infirmity was not the result of the English climate, from which he
absented himself for a considerable part of each year.
He had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel Tracy Touchett,
a native of Rutland, in the State of Vermont, came to England as
subordinate partner in a banking-house where some ten years later he
gained preponderant control. Daniel Touchett saw before him a life-long
residence in his adopted country, of which, from the first, he took a
simple, sane and accommodating view. But, as he said to himself, he had
no intention of disamericanising, nor had he a desire to teach his
only son any such subtle art. It had been for himself so very soluble a
problem to live in England assimilated yet unconverted that it seemed to
him equally simple his lawful heir should after his death carry on the
grey old bank in the white American light. He was at pains to intensify
this light, however, by sending the boy home for his education. Ralph
spent several terms at an American school and took a degree at an
American university, after which, as he struck his father on his return
as even redundantly native, he was placed for some three years in
residence at Oxford. Oxford swallowed up Harvard, and Ralph became
at last English enough. His outward conformity to the manners that
surrounded him was none the less the mask of a mind that greatly enjoyed
its independence, on which nothing long imposed itself, and which,
naturally inclined to adventure and irony, indulged in a boundless
liberty of appreciation. He began with being a young man of promise; at
Oxford he distinguished himself, to his father's ineffable satisfaction,
and the people about him said it was a thousand pities so clever a
fellow should be shut out from a career. He might have had a career
by returning to his own country (though this point is shrouded in
uncertainty) and even if Mr. Touchett had been willing to part with
him (which was not the case) it would have gone hard with him to put
a watery waste permanently between himself and the old man whom he
regarded as his best friend. Ralph was not only fond of his father,
he admired him--he enjoyed the opportunity of observing him. Daniel
Touchett, to his perception, was a man of genius, and though he himself
had no aptitude for the banking mystery he made a point of learning
enough of it to measure the great figure his father had played. It was
not this, however, he mainly relished; it was the fine ivory surface,
polished as by the English air, that the old man had opposed to
possibilities of penetration. Daniel Touchett had been neither at
Harvard nor at Oxford, and it was his own fault if he had placed in his
son's hands the key to modern criticism. Ralph, whose head was full
of ideas which his father had never guessed, had a high esteem for the
latter's originality. Americans, rightly or wrongly, are commended for
the ease with which they adapt themselves to foreign conditions; but Mr.
Touchett had made of the very limits of his pliancy half the ground
of his general success. He had retained in their freshness most of
his marks of primary pressure; his tone, as his son always noted with
pleasure, was that of the more luxuriant parts of New England. At the
end of his life he had become, on his own ground, as mellow as he
was rich; he combined consummate shrewdness with the disposition
superficially to fraternise, and his "social position," on which he had
never wasted a care, had the firm perfection of an unthumbed fruit. It
was perhaps his want of imagination and of what is called the historic
consciousness; but to many of the impressions usually made by English
life upon the cultivated stranger his sense was completely closed. There
were certain differences he had never perceived, certain habits he had
never formed, certain obscurities he had never sounded. As regards these
latter, on the day he had sounded them his son would have thought less
well of him.
Ralph, on leaving Oxford, had spent a couple of years in travelling;
after which he had found himself perched on a high stool in his father's
bank. The responsibility and honour of such positions is not, I
believe, measured by the height of the stool, which depends upon other
considerations: Ralph, indeed, who had very long legs, was fond of
standing, and even of walking about, at his work. To this exercise,
however, he was obliged to devote but a limited period, for at the end
of some eighteen months he had become aware of his being seriously out
of health. He had caught a violent cold, which fixed itself on his lungs
and threw them into dire confusion. He had to give up work and apply,
to the letter, the sorry injunction to take care of himself. At first he
slighted the task; it appeared to him it was not himself in the least
he was taking care of, but an uninteresting and uninterested person
with whom he had nothing in common. This person, however, improved
on acquaintance, and Ralph grew at last to have a certain grudging
tolerance, even an undemonstrative respect, for him. Misfortune makes
strange bedfellows, and our young man, feeling that he had something
at stake in the matter--it usually struck him as his reputation for
ordinary wit--devoted to his graceless charge an amount of attention of
which note was duly taken and which had at least the effect of keeping
the poor fellow alive. One of his lungs began to heal, the other
promised to follow its example, and he was assured he might outweather
a dozen winters if he would betake himself to those climates in which
consumptives chiefly congregate. As he had grown extremely fond of
London, he cursed the flatness of exile: but at the same time that he
cursed he conformed, and gradually, when he found his sensitive organ
grateful even for grim favours, he conferred them with a lighter hand.
He wintered abroad, as the phrase is; basked in the sun, stopped at home
when the wind blew, went to bed when it rained, and once or twice, when
it had snowed overnight, almost never got up again.
A secret hoard of indifference--like a thick cake a fond old nurse might
have slipped into his first school outfit--came to his aid and helped to
reconcile him to sacrifice; since at the best he was too ill for aught
but that arduous game. As he said to himself, there was really nothing
he had wanted very much to do, so that he had at least not renounced the
field of valour. At present, however, the fragrance of forbidden fruit
seemed occasionally to float past him and remind him that the finest of
pleasures is the rush of action. Living as he now lived was like reading
a good book in a poor translation--a meagre entertainment for a young
man who felt that he might have been an excellent linguist. He had good
winters and poor winters, and while the former lasted he was sometimes
the sport of a vision of virtual recovery. But this vision was dispelled
some three years before the occurrence of the incidents with which this
history opens: he had on that occasion remained later than usual in
England and had been overtaken by bad weather before reaching Algiers.
He arrived more dead than alive and lay there for several weeks between
life and death. His convalescence was a miracle, but the first use he
made of it was to assure himself that such miracles happen but once. He
said to himself that his hour was in sight and that it behoved him to
keep his eyes upon it, yet that it was also open to him to spend the
interval as agreeably as might be consistent with such a preoccupation.
With the prospect of losing them the simple use of his faculties became
an exquisite pleasure; it seemed to him the joys of contemplation had
never been sounded. He was far from the time when he had found it hard
that he should be obliged to give up the idea of distinguishing himself;
an idea none the less importunate for being vague and none the less
delightful for having had to struggle in the same breast with bursts
of inspiring self-criticism. His friends at present judged him more
cheerful, and attributed it to a theory, over which they shook their
heads knowingly, that he would recover his health. His serenity was but
the array of wild flowers niched in his ruin.
It was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the observed thing
in itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph's quickly-stirred interest
in the advent of a young lady who was evidently not insipid. If he was
consideringly disposed, something told him, here was occupation enough
for a succession of days. It may be added, in summary fashion, that the
imagination of loving--as distinguished from that of being loved--had
still a place in his reduced sketch. He had only forbidden himself the
riot of expression. However, he shouldn't inspire his cousin with a
passion, nor would she be able, even should she try, to help him to one.
"And now tell me about the young lady," he said to his mother. "What do
you mean to do with her?"
Mrs. Touchett was prompt. "I mean to ask your father to invite her to
stay three or four weeks at Gardencourt."
"You needn't stand on any such ceremony as that," said Ralph. "My father
will ask her as a matter of course."
"I don't know about that. She's my niece; she's not his."
"Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That's all the more
reason for his asking her. But after that--I mean after three months
(for its absurd asking the poor girl to remain but for three or four
paltry weeks)--what do you mean to do with her?"
"I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing."
"Ah yes, that's of course. But independently of that?"
"I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence."
"You don't rise above detail, dear mother," said Ralph. "I should like
to know what you mean to do with her in a general way."
"My duty!" Mrs. Touchett declared. "I suppose you pity her very much,"
she added.
"No, I don't think I pity her. She doesn't strike me as inviting
compassion. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however, give me a
hint of where you see your duty."
"In showing her four European countries--I shall leave her the choice of
two of them--and in giving her the opportunity of perfecting herself in
French, which she already knows very well."
Ralph frowned a little. "That sounds rather dry--even allowing her the
choice of two of the countries."
"If it's dry," said his mother with a laugh, "you can leave Isabel alone
to water it! She is as good as a summer rain, any day."
"Do you mean she's a gifted being?"
"I don't know whether she's a gifted being, but she's a clever
girl--with a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea of being
bored."
"I can imagine that," said Ralph; and then he added abruptly: "How do
you two get on?"
"Do you mean by that that I'm a bore? I don't think she finds me one.
Some girls might, I know; but Isabel's too clever for that. I think I
greatly amuse her. We get on because I understand her, I know the sort
of girl she is. She's very frank, and I'm very frank: we know just what
to expect of each other."
"Ah, dear mother," Ralph exclaimed, "one always knows what to expect
of you! You've never surprised me but once, and that's to-day--in
presenting me with a pretty cousin whose existence I had never
suspected."
"Do you think her so very pretty?"
"Very pretty indeed; but I don't insist upon that. It's her general
air of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is this rare
creature, and what is she? Where did you find her, and how did you make
her acquaintance?"
"I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a dreary room on a
rainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herself to death. She didn't
know she was bored, but when I left her no doubt of it she seemed very
grateful for the service. You may say I shouldn't have enlightened he--I
should have let her alone. There's a good deal in that, but I acted
conscientiously; I thought she was meant for something better. It
occurred to me that it would be a kindness to take her about and
introduce her to the world. She thinks she knows a great deal of
it--like most American girls; but like most American girls she's
ridiculously mistaken. If you want to know, I thought she would do me
credit. I like to be well thought of, and for a woman of my age there's
no greater convenience, in some ways, than an attractive niece. You
know I had seen nothing of my sister's children for years; I disapproved
entirely of the father. But I always meant to do something for them when
he should have gone to his reward. I ascertained where they were to be
found and, without any preliminaries, went and introduced myself. There
are two others of them, both of whom are married; but I saw only the
elder, who has, by the way, a very uncivil husband. The wife, whose name
is Lily, jumped at the idea of my taking an interest in Isabel; she
said it was just what her sister needed--that some one should take
an interest in her. She spoke of her as you might speak of some young
person of genius--in want of encouragement and patronage. It may be that
Isabel's a genius; but in that case I've not yet learned her special
line. Mrs. Ludlow was especially keen about my taking her to Europe;
they all regard Europe over there as a land of emigration, of rescue, a
refuge for their superfluous population. Isabel herself seemed very
glad to come, and the thing was easily arranged. There was a little
difficulty about the money-question, as she seemed averse to being
under pecuniary obligations. But she has a small income and she supposes
herself to be travelling at her own expense."
Ralph had listened attentively to this judicious report, by which his
interest in the subject of it was not impaired. "Ah, if she's a genius,"
he said, "we must find out her special line. Is it by chance for
flirting?"
"I don't think so. You may suspect that at first, but you'll be wrong.
You won't, I think, in any way, be easily right about her."
"Warburton's wrong then!" Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. "He flatters
himself he has made that discovery."
His mother shook her head. "Lord Warburton won't understand her. He
needn't try."
"He's very intelligent," said Ralph; "but it's right he should be
puzzled once in a while."
"Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord," Mrs. Touchett remarked.
Her son frowned a little. "What does she know about lords?"
"Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more."
Ralph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of the window.
Then, "Are you not going down to see my father?" he asked.
"At a quarter to eight," said Mrs. Touchett.
Her son looked at his watch. "You've another quarter of an hour then.
Tell me some more about Isabel." After which, as Mrs. Touchett declined
his invitation, declaring that he must find out for himself, "Well," he
pursued, "she'll certainly do you credit. But won't she also give you
trouble?"
"I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I never do
that."
"She strikes me as very natural," said Ralph.
"Natural people are not the most trouble."
"No," said Ralph; "you yourself are a proof of that. You're extremely
natural, and I'm sure you have never troubled any one. It takes trouble
to do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me. Is Isabel capable of
making herself disagreeable?"
"Ah," cried his mother, "you ask too many questions! Find that out for
yourself."
His questions, however, were not exhausted. "All this time," he said,
"you've not told me what you intend to do with her."
"Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I shall do
absolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do everything she
chooses. She gave me notice of that."
"What you meant then, in your telegram, was that her character's
independent."
"I never know what I mean in my telegrams--especially those I send from
America. Clearness is too expensive. Come down to your father."
"It's not yet a quarter to eight," said Ralph.
"I must allow for his impatience," Mrs. Touchett answered. Ralph knew
what to think of his father's impatience; but, making no rejoinder, he
offered his mother his arm. This put it in his power, as they
descended together, to stop her a moment on the middle landing of the
staircase--the broad, low, wide-armed staircase of time-blackened oak
which was one of the most striking features of Gardencourt. "You've no
plan of marrying her?" he smiled.
"Marrying her? I should be sorry to play her such a trick! But apart
from that, she's perfectly able to marry herself. She has every
facility."
"Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out?"
"I don't know about a husband, but there's a young man in Boston--!"
Ralph went on; he had no desire to hear about the young man in Boston.
"As my father says, they're always engaged!"
His mother had told him that he must satisfy his curiosity at the
source, and it soon became evident he should not want for occasion. He
had a good deal of talk with his young kinswoman when the two had been
left together in the drawing-room. Lord Warburton, who had ridden over
from his own house, some ten miles distant, remounted and took his
departure before dinner; and an hour after this meal was ended Mr. and
Mrs. Touchett, who appeared to have quite emptied the measure of their
forms, withdrew, under the valid pretext of fatigue, to their respective
apartments. The young man spent an hour with his cousin; though she had
been travelling half the day she appeared in no degree spent. She was
really tired; she knew it, and knew she should pay for it on the morrow;
but it was her habit at this period to carry exhaustion to the furthest
point and confess to it only when dissimulation broke down. A fine
hypocrisy was for the present possible; she was interested; she was, as
she said to herself, floated. She asked Ralph to show her the pictures;
there were a great many in the house, most of them of his own choosing.
The best were arranged in an oaken gallery, of charming proportions,
which had a sitting-room at either end of it and which in the evening
was usually lighted. The light was insufficient to show the pictures
to advantage, and the visit might have stood over to the morrow.
This suggestion Ralph had ventured to make; but Isabel looked
disappointed--smiling still, however--and said: "If you please I should
like to see them just a little." She was eager, she knew she was eager
and now seemed so; she couldn't help it. "She doesn't take suggestions,"
Ralph said to himself; but he said it without irritation; her pressure
amused and even pleased him. The lamps were on brackets, at intervals,
and if the light was imperfect it was genial. It fell upon the vague
squares of rich colour and on the faded gilding of heavy frames; it made
a sheen on the polished floor of the gallery. Ralph took a candlestick
and moved about, pointing out the things he liked; Isabel, inclining to
one picture after another, indulged in little exclamations and murmurs.
She was evidently a judge; she had a natural taste; he was struck with
that. She took a candlestick herself and held it slowly here and there;
she lifted it high, and as she did so he found himself pausing in the
middle of the place and bending his eyes much less upon the pictures
than on her presence. He lost nothing, in truth, by these wandering
glances, for she was better worth looking at than most works of art.
She was undeniably spare, and ponderably light, and proveably tall; when
people had wished to distinguish her from the other two Miss Archers
they had always called her the willowy one. Her hair, which was dark
even to blackness, had been an object of envy to many women; her light
grey eyes, a little too firm perhaps in her graver moments, had an
enchanting range of concession. They walked slowly up one side of the
gallery and down the other, and then she said: "Well, now I know more
than I did when I began!"
"You apparently have a great passion for knowledge," her cousin
returned.
"I think I have; most girls are horridly ignorant."
"You strike me as different from most girls."
"Ah, some of them would--but the way they're talked to!" murmured
Isabel, who preferred not to dilate just yet on herself. Then in a
moment, to change the subject, "Please tell me--isn't there a ghost?"
she went on.
"A ghost?"
"A castle-spectre, a thing that appears. We call them ghosts in
America."
"So we do here, when we see them."
"You do see them then? You ought to, in this romantic old house."
"It's not a romantic old house," said Ralph. "You'll be disappointed if
you count on that. It's a dismally prosaic one; there's no romance here
but what you may have brought with you."
"I've brought a great deal; but it seems to me I've brought it to the
right place."
"To keep it out of harm, certainly; nothing will ever happen to it here,
between my father and me."
Isabel looked at him a moment. "Is there never any one here but your
father and you?"
"My mother, of course."
"Oh, I know your mother; she's not romantic. Haven't you other people?"
"Very few."
"I'm sorry for that; I like so much to see people."
"Oh, we'll invite all the county to amuse you," said Ralph.
"Now you're making fun of me," the girl answered rather gravely. "Who
was the gentleman on the lawn when I arrived?"
"A county neighbour; he doesn't come very often."
"I'm sorry for that; I liked him," said Isabel.
"Why, it seemed to me that you barely spoke to him," Ralph objected.
"Never mind, I like him all the same. I like your father too,
immensely."
"You can't do better than that. He's the dearest of the dear."
"I'm so sorry he is ill," said Isabel.
"You must help me to nurse him; you ought to be a good nurse."
"I don't think I am; I've been told I'm not; I'm said to have too many
theories. But you haven't told me about the ghost," she added.
Ralph, however, gave no heed to this observation. "You like my father
and you like Lord Warburton. I infer also that you like my mother."
"I like your mother very much, because--because--" And Isabel found
herself attempting to assign a reason for her affection for Mrs.
Touchett.
"Ah, we never know why!" said her companion, laughing.
"I always know why," the girl answered. "It's because she doesn't expect
one to like her. She doesn't care whether one does or not."
"So you adore her--out of perversity? Well, I take greatly after my
mother," said Ralph.
"I don't believe you do at all. You wish people to like you, and you try
to make them do it."
"Good heavens, how you see through one!" he cried with a dismay that was
not altogether jocular.
"But I like you all the same," his cousin went on. "The way to clinch
the matter will be to show me the ghost."
Ralph shook his head sadly. "I might show it to you, but you'd never see
it. The privilege isn't given to every one; it's not enviable. It has
never been seen by a young, happy, innocent person like you. You must
have suffered first, have suffered greatly, have gained some miserable
knowledge. In that way your eyes are opened to it. I saw it long ago,"
said Ralph.
"I told you just now I'm very fond of knowledge," Isabel answered.
"Yes, of happy knowledge--of pleasant knowledge. But you haven't
suffered, and you're not made to suffer. I hope you'll never see the
ghost!"
She had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips, but with
a certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he found her, she had struck
him as rather presumptuous--indeed it was a part of her charm; and he
wondered what she would say. "I'm not afraid, you know," she said: which
seemed quite presumptuous enough.
"You're not afraid of suffering?"
"Yes, I'm afraid of suffering. But I'm not afraid of ghosts. And I think
people suffer too easily," she added.
"I don't believe you do," said Ralph, looking at her with his hands in
his pockets.
"I don't think that's a fault," she answered. "It's not absolutely
necessary to suffer; we were not made for that."
"You were not, certainly."
"I'm not speaking of myself." And she wandered off a little.
"No, it isn't a fault," said her cousin. "It's a merit to be strong."
"Only, if you don't suffer they call you hard," Isabel remarked.
They passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into which they had
returned from the gallery, and paused in the hall, at the foot of the
staircase. Here Ralph presented his companion with her bedroom candle,
which he had taken from a niche. "Never mind what they call you. When
you do suffer they call you an idiot. The great point's to be as happy
as possible."
She looked at him a little; she had taken her candle and placed her foot
on the oaken stair. "Well," she said, "that's what I came to Europe for,
to be as happy as possible. Good-night."
"Good-night! I wish you all success, and shall be very glad to
contribute to it!"
She turned away, and he watched her as she slowly ascended. Then, with
his hands always in his pockets, he went back to the empty drawing-room.
| At the opening of Chapter 5, Ralph Touchett knocks on his mother's door eagerly. His mother is described as being more fatherly, her father, as more motherly. Ralph's father, Mr. Daniel Touchett, is described as having adopted England as his country because he found it sane and accommodating. Yet he also had no great desire to render himself less American. Ralph therefore spent many terms at an American school, has a degree from an American university, but he also spent three years at Oxford. Ralph is therefore well accustomed to English manners, and appeared English from the outside, but his mind is described as enjoying independence. He did well at Oxford, but he was prevented from having a successful career in England because he was American. Ralph admires his father but has no aptitude for banking himself. Ralph appreciates his father's "fine ivory surface" mostly -- that is, his father's impenetrability to the ideas of others, his father's "originality". Mr. Daniel Touchett has been successful because he is less pliant than many other Americans. Ralph had worked briefly at his father's bank before he caught a violent sickness; he is a consumptive. This is a deadly disease, but it is described optimistically, insofar as Ralph believes he will survive quite a few winters. He always goes abroad during the winter because of this disease. He comforts himself with the thought that he had not really had ambition to do much in his life in the first place. One winter though, he stayed too long in England, and arrived more "dead than alive" in Algiers. After this scare, his attitude changed: he no longer felt he had to struggle to distinguish himself. His friends then know him as more serene. He though does still have the prospect of being in love in his future, although he has forbidden himself an "expression" of this. Ralph Touchett converses with his mother about Isabel, and he jokes that he speaks about her like a piece of "property". He asks what she means to do with her. Mrs. Touchett answers practically, when Ralph has asked the question in the abstract. Mrs. Touchett talks about buying her clothing, bringing her to Paris, and so forth. I should like to know what you mean to do with her in a general way," Ralph responds. Mrs. Touchett tells Ralph where she found Isabel. She thinks Isabel may be a "genius," but she does not yet know in what. Ralph asks if she is a genius in flirting, as Lord Warburton has suggested that to him, but Mrs. Touchett thinks that is not where Isabel's talents lie. Ralph delights in the idea that Isabel might be a "puzzle" to Lord Warburton. Ralph persists in asking what Mrs. Touchett plans to "do" with her, and then asks if she plans to get her to marry someone in Europe. Mrs. Touchett responds, "She's perfectly able to marry herself," implying that she does not plan on assisting her in that regard. Mrs. Touchett does not know if Isabel is already engaged. Ralph then goes to show Isabel around the house. He watches her inspecting some of the art in their gallery, and he notes that she has "taste" and a judging eye. He also notes that she has a great passion for knowledge. Isabel wants to know if there is a ghost in their mansion. Ralph responds that their house is "dismally prosaic" and that there is no romance there "but what you may have brought with you ". Isabel asks if there are more people around there house, saying that she liked Ralph's father and his friend, Lord Warburton. She also likes Mrs. Touchett, she declares, because Mrs. Touchett does not expect one to like her. She goes on to assert that she likes Ralph too, even though he is the opposite of Mrs. Touchett in caring what others think of him. Isabel and Ralph conclude the conversation by agreeing that the great point is to be as happy as possible, and that one does not need to suffer | summary |
Ralph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless he knocked at his
mother's door (at a quarter to seven) with a good deal of eagerness.
Even philosophers have their preferences, and it must be admitted
that of his progenitors his father ministered most to his sense of the
sweetness of filial dependence. His father, as he had often said to
himself, was the more motherly; his mother, on the other hand, was
paternal, and even, according to the slang of the day, gubernatorial.
She was nevertheless very fond of her only child and had always insisted
on his spending three months of the year with her. Ralph rendered
perfect justice to her affection and knew that in her thoughts and her
thoroughly arranged and servanted life his turn always came after the
other nearest subjects of her solicitude, the various punctualities of
performance of the workers of her will. He found her completely dressed
for dinner, but she embraced her boy with her gloved hands and made
him sit on the sofa beside her. She enquired scrupulously about her
husband's health and about the young man's own, and, receiving no
very brilliant account of either, remarked that she was more than ever
convinced of her wisdom in not exposing herself to the English climate.
In this case she also might have given way. Ralph smiled at the idea of
his mother's giving way, but made no point of reminding her that his
own infirmity was not the result of the English climate, from which he
absented himself for a considerable part of each year.
He had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel Tracy Touchett,
a native of Rutland, in the State of Vermont, came to England as
subordinate partner in a banking-house where some ten years later he
gained preponderant control. Daniel Touchett saw before him a life-long
residence in his adopted country, of which, from the first, he took a
simple, sane and accommodating view. But, as he said to himself, he had
no intention of disamericanising, nor had he a desire to teach his
only son any such subtle art. It had been for himself so very soluble a
problem to live in England assimilated yet unconverted that it seemed to
him equally simple his lawful heir should after his death carry on the
grey old bank in the white American light. He was at pains to intensify
this light, however, by sending the boy home for his education. Ralph
spent several terms at an American school and took a degree at an
American university, after which, as he struck his father on his return
as even redundantly native, he was placed for some three years in
residence at Oxford. Oxford swallowed up Harvard, and Ralph became
at last English enough. His outward conformity to the manners that
surrounded him was none the less the mask of a mind that greatly enjoyed
its independence, on which nothing long imposed itself, and which,
naturally inclined to adventure and irony, indulged in a boundless
liberty of appreciation. He began with being a young man of promise; at
Oxford he distinguished himself, to his father's ineffable satisfaction,
and the people about him said it was a thousand pities so clever a
fellow should be shut out from a career. He might have had a career
by returning to his own country (though this point is shrouded in
uncertainty) and even if Mr. Touchett had been willing to part with
him (which was not the case) it would have gone hard with him to put
a watery waste permanently between himself and the old man whom he
regarded as his best friend. Ralph was not only fond of his father,
he admired him--he enjoyed the opportunity of observing him. Daniel
Touchett, to his perception, was a man of genius, and though he himself
had no aptitude for the banking mystery he made a point of learning
enough of it to measure the great figure his father had played. It was
not this, however, he mainly relished; it was the fine ivory surface,
polished as by the English air, that the old man had opposed to
possibilities of penetration. Daniel Touchett had been neither at
Harvard nor at Oxford, and it was his own fault if he had placed in his
son's hands the key to modern criticism. Ralph, whose head was full
of ideas which his father had never guessed, had a high esteem for the
latter's originality. Americans, rightly or wrongly, are commended for
the ease with which they adapt themselves to foreign conditions; but Mr.
Touchett had made of the very limits of his pliancy half the ground
of his general success. He had retained in their freshness most of
his marks of primary pressure; his tone, as his son always noted with
pleasure, was that of the more luxuriant parts of New England. At the
end of his life he had become, on his own ground, as mellow as he
was rich; he combined consummate shrewdness with the disposition
superficially to fraternise, and his "social position," on which he had
never wasted a care, had the firm perfection of an unthumbed fruit. It
was perhaps his want of imagination and of what is called the historic
consciousness; but to many of the impressions usually made by English
life upon the cultivated stranger his sense was completely closed. There
were certain differences he had never perceived, certain habits he had
never formed, certain obscurities he had never sounded. As regards these
latter, on the day he had sounded them his son would have thought less
well of him.
Ralph, on leaving Oxford, had spent a couple of years in travelling;
after which he had found himself perched on a high stool in his father's
bank. The responsibility and honour of such positions is not, I
believe, measured by the height of the stool, which depends upon other
considerations: Ralph, indeed, who had very long legs, was fond of
standing, and even of walking about, at his work. To this exercise,
however, he was obliged to devote but a limited period, for at the end
of some eighteen months he had become aware of his being seriously out
of health. He had caught a violent cold, which fixed itself on his lungs
and threw them into dire confusion. He had to give up work and apply,
to the letter, the sorry injunction to take care of himself. At first he
slighted the task; it appeared to him it was not himself in the least
he was taking care of, but an uninteresting and uninterested person
with whom he had nothing in common. This person, however, improved
on acquaintance, and Ralph grew at last to have a certain grudging
tolerance, even an undemonstrative respect, for him. Misfortune makes
strange bedfellows, and our young man, feeling that he had something
at stake in the matter--it usually struck him as his reputation for
ordinary wit--devoted to his graceless charge an amount of attention of
which note was duly taken and which had at least the effect of keeping
the poor fellow alive. One of his lungs began to heal, the other
promised to follow its example, and he was assured he might outweather
a dozen winters if he would betake himself to those climates in which
consumptives chiefly congregate. As he had grown extremely fond of
London, he cursed the flatness of exile: but at the same time that he
cursed he conformed, and gradually, when he found his sensitive organ
grateful even for grim favours, he conferred them with a lighter hand.
He wintered abroad, as the phrase is; basked in the sun, stopped at home
when the wind blew, went to bed when it rained, and once or twice, when
it had snowed overnight, almost never got up again.
A secret hoard of indifference--like a thick cake a fond old nurse might
have slipped into his first school outfit--came to his aid and helped to
reconcile him to sacrifice; since at the best he was too ill for aught
but that arduous game. As he said to himself, there was really nothing
he had wanted very much to do, so that he had at least not renounced the
field of valour. At present, however, the fragrance of forbidden fruit
seemed occasionally to float past him and remind him that the finest of
pleasures is the rush of action. Living as he now lived was like reading
a good book in a poor translation--a meagre entertainment for a young
man who felt that he might have been an excellent linguist. He had good
winters and poor winters, and while the former lasted he was sometimes
the sport of a vision of virtual recovery. But this vision was dispelled
some three years before the occurrence of the incidents with which this
history opens: he had on that occasion remained later than usual in
England and had been overtaken by bad weather before reaching Algiers.
He arrived more dead than alive and lay there for several weeks between
life and death. His convalescence was a miracle, but the first use he
made of it was to assure himself that such miracles happen but once. He
said to himself that his hour was in sight and that it behoved him to
keep his eyes upon it, yet that it was also open to him to spend the
interval as agreeably as might be consistent with such a preoccupation.
With the prospect of losing them the simple use of his faculties became
an exquisite pleasure; it seemed to him the joys of contemplation had
never been sounded. He was far from the time when he had found it hard
that he should be obliged to give up the idea of distinguishing himself;
an idea none the less importunate for being vague and none the less
delightful for having had to struggle in the same breast with bursts
of inspiring self-criticism. His friends at present judged him more
cheerful, and attributed it to a theory, over which they shook their
heads knowingly, that he would recover his health. His serenity was but
the array of wild flowers niched in his ruin.
It was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the observed thing
in itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph's quickly-stirred interest
in the advent of a young lady who was evidently not insipid. If he was
consideringly disposed, something told him, here was occupation enough
for a succession of days. It may be added, in summary fashion, that the
imagination of loving--as distinguished from that of being loved--had
still a place in his reduced sketch. He had only forbidden himself the
riot of expression. However, he shouldn't inspire his cousin with a
passion, nor would she be able, even should she try, to help him to one.
"And now tell me about the young lady," he said to his mother. "What do
you mean to do with her?"
Mrs. Touchett was prompt. "I mean to ask your father to invite her to
stay three or four weeks at Gardencourt."
"You needn't stand on any such ceremony as that," said Ralph. "My father
will ask her as a matter of course."
"I don't know about that. She's my niece; she's not his."
"Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That's all the more
reason for his asking her. But after that--I mean after three months
(for its absurd asking the poor girl to remain but for three or four
paltry weeks)--what do you mean to do with her?"
"I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing."
"Ah yes, that's of course. But independently of that?"
"I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence."
"You don't rise above detail, dear mother," said Ralph. "I should like
to know what you mean to do with her in a general way."
"My duty!" Mrs. Touchett declared. "I suppose you pity her very much,"
she added.
"No, I don't think I pity her. She doesn't strike me as inviting
compassion. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however, give me a
hint of where you see your duty."
"In showing her four European countries--I shall leave her the choice of
two of them--and in giving her the opportunity of perfecting herself in
French, which she already knows very well."
Ralph frowned a little. "That sounds rather dry--even allowing her the
choice of two of the countries."
"If it's dry," said his mother with a laugh, "you can leave Isabel alone
to water it! She is as good as a summer rain, any day."
"Do you mean she's a gifted being?"
"I don't know whether she's a gifted being, but she's a clever
girl--with a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea of being
bored."
"I can imagine that," said Ralph; and then he added abruptly: "How do
you two get on?"
"Do you mean by that that I'm a bore? I don't think she finds me one.
Some girls might, I know; but Isabel's too clever for that. I think I
greatly amuse her. We get on because I understand her, I know the sort
of girl she is. She's very frank, and I'm very frank: we know just what
to expect of each other."
"Ah, dear mother," Ralph exclaimed, "one always knows what to expect
of you! You've never surprised me but once, and that's to-day--in
presenting me with a pretty cousin whose existence I had never
suspected."
"Do you think her so very pretty?"
"Very pretty indeed; but I don't insist upon that. It's her general
air of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is this rare
creature, and what is she? Where did you find her, and how did you make
her acquaintance?"
"I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a dreary room on a
rainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herself to death. She didn't
know she was bored, but when I left her no doubt of it she seemed very
grateful for the service. You may say I shouldn't have enlightened he--I
should have let her alone. There's a good deal in that, but I acted
conscientiously; I thought she was meant for something better. It
occurred to me that it would be a kindness to take her about and
introduce her to the world. She thinks she knows a great deal of
it--like most American girls; but like most American girls she's
ridiculously mistaken. If you want to know, I thought she would do me
credit. I like to be well thought of, and for a woman of my age there's
no greater convenience, in some ways, than an attractive niece. You
know I had seen nothing of my sister's children for years; I disapproved
entirely of the father. But I always meant to do something for them when
he should have gone to his reward. I ascertained where they were to be
found and, without any preliminaries, went and introduced myself. There
are two others of them, both of whom are married; but I saw only the
elder, who has, by the way, a very uncivil husband. The wife, whose name
is Lily, jumped at the idea of my taking an interest in Isabel; she
said it was just what her sister needed--that some one should take
an interest in her. She spoke of her as you might speak of some young
person of genius--in want of encouragement and patronage. It may be that
Isabel's a genius; but in that case I've not yet learned her special
line. Mrs. Ludlow was especially keen about my taking her to Europe;
they all regard Europe over there as a land of emigration, of rescue, a
refuge for their superfluous population. Isabel herself seemed very
glad to come, and the thing was easily arranged. There was a little
difficulty about the money-question, as she seemed averse to being
under pecuniary obligations. But she has a small income and she supposes
herself to be travelling at her own expense."
Ralph had listened attentively to this judicious report, by which his
interest in the subject of it was not impaired. "Ah, if she's a genius,"
he said, "we must find out her special line. Is it by chance for
flirting?"
"I don't think so. You may suspect that at first, but you'll be wrong.
You won't, I think, in any way, be easily right about her."
"Warburton's wrong then!" Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. "He flatters
himself he has made that discovery."
His mother shook her head. "Lord Warburton won't understand her. He
needn't try."
"He's very intelligent," said Ralph; "but it's right he should be
puzzled once in a while."
"Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord," Mrs. Touchett remarked.
Her son frowned a little. "What does she know about lords?"
"Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more."
Ralph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of the window.
Then, "Are you not going down to see my father?" he asked.
"At a quarter to eight," said Mrs. Touchett.
Her son looked at his watch. "You've another quarter of an hour then.
Tell me some more about Isabel." After which, as Mrs. Touchett declined
his invitation, declaring that he must find out for himself, "Well," he
pursued, "she'll certainly do you credit. But won't she also give you
trouble?"
"I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I never do
that."
"She strikes me as very natural," said Ralph.
"Natural people are not the most trouble."
"No," said Ralph; "you yourself are a proof of that. You're extremely
natural, and I'm sure you have never troubled any one. It takes trouble
to do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me. Is Isabel capable of
making herself disagreeable?"
"Ah," cried his mother, "you ask too many questions! Find that out for
yourself."
His questions, however, were not exhausted. "All this time," he said,
"you've not told me what you intend to do with her."
"Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I shall do
absolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do everything she
chooses. She gave me notice of that."
"What you meant then, in your telegram, was that her character's
independent."
"I never know what I mean in my telegrams--especially those I send from
America. Clearness is too expensive. Come down to your father."
"It's not yet a quarter to eight," said Ralph.
"I must allow for his impatience," Mrs. Touchett answered. Ralph knew
what to think of his father's impatience; but, making no rejoinder, he
offered his mother his arm. This put it in his power, as they
descended together, to stop her a moment on the middle landing of the
staircase--the broad, low, wide-armed staircase of time-blackened oak
which was one of the most striking features of Gardencourt. "You've no
plan of marrying her?" he smiled.
"Marrying her? I should be sorry to play her such a trick! But apart
from that, she's perfectly able to marry herself. She has every
facility."
"Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out?"
"I don't know about a husband, but there's a young man in Boston--!"
Ralph went on; he had no desire to hear about the young man in Boston.
"As my father says, they're always engaged!"
His mother had told him that he must satisfy his curiosity at the
source, and it soon became evident he should not want for occasion. He
had a good deal of talk with his young kinswoman when the two had been
left together in the drawing-room. Lord Warburton, who had ridden over
from his own house, some ten miles distant, remounted and took his
departure before dinner; and an hour after this meal was ended Mr. and
Mrs. Touchett, who appeared to have quite emptied the measure of their
forms, withdrew, under the valid pretext of fatigue, to their respective
apartments. The young man spent an hour with his cousin; though she had
been travelling half the day she appeared in no degree spent. She was
really tired; she knew it, and knew she should pay for it on the morrow;
but it was her habit at this period to carry exhaustion to the furthest
point and confess to it only when dissimulation broke down. A fine
hypocrisy was for the present possible; she was interested; she was, as
she said to herself, floated. She asked Ralph to show her the pictures;
there were a great many in the house, most of them of his own choosing.
The best were arranged in an oaken gallery, of charming proportions,
which had a sitting-room at either end of it and which in the evening
was usually lighted. The light was insufficient to show the pictures
to advantage, and the visit might have stood over to the morrow.
This suggestion Ralph had ventured to make; but Isabel looked
disappointed--smiling still, however--and said: "If you please I should
like to see them just a little." She was eager, she knew she was eager
and now seemed so; she couldn't help it. "She doesn't take suggestions,"
Ralph said to himself; but he said it without irritation; her pressure
amused and even pleased him. The lamps were on brackets, at intervals,
and if the light was imperfect it was genial. It fell upon the vague
squares of rich colour and on the faded gilding of heavy frames; it made
a sheen on the polished floor of the gallery. Ralph took a candlestick
and moved about, pointing out the things he liked; Isabel, inclining to
one picture after another, indulged in little exclamations and murmurs.
She was evidently a judge; she had a natural taste; he was struck with
that. She took a candlestick herself and held it slowly here and there;
she lifted it high, and as she did so he found himself pausing in the
middle of the place and bending his eyes much less upon the pictures
than on her presence. He lost nothing, in truth, by these wandering
glances, for she was better worth looking at than most works of art.
She was undeniably spare, and ponderably light, and proveably tall; when
people had wished to distinguish her from the other two Miss Archers
they had always called her the willowy one. Her hair, which was dark
even to blackness, had been an object of envy to many women; her light
grey eyes, a little too firm perhaps in her graver moments, had an
enchanting range of concession. They walked slowly up one side of the
gallery and down the other, and then she said: "Well, now I know more
than I did when I began!"
"You apparently have a great passion for knowledge," her cousin
returned.
"I think I have; most girls are horridly ignorant."
"You strike me as different from most girls."
"Ah, some of them would--but the way they're talked to!" murmured
Isabel, who preferred not to dilate just yet on herself. Then in a
moment, to change the subject, "Please tell me--isn't there a ghost?"
she went on.
"A ghost?"
"A castle-spectre, a thing that appears. We call them ghosts in
America."
"So we do here, when we see them."
"You do see them then? You ought to, in this romantic old house."
"It's not a romantic old house," said Ralph. "You'll be disappointed if
you count on that. It's a dismally prosaic one; there's no romance here
but what you may have brought with you."
"I've brought a great deal; but it seems to me I've brought it to the
right place."
"To keep it out of harm, certainly; nothing will ever happen to it here,
between my father and me."
Isabel looked at him a moment. "Is there never any one here but your
father and you?"
"My mother, of course."
"Oh, I know your mother; she's not romantic. Haven't you other people?"
"Very few."
"I'm sorry for that; I like so much to see people."
"Oh, we'll invite all the county to amuse you," said Ralph.
"Now you're making fun of me," the girl answered rather gravely. "Who
was the gentleman on the lawn when I arrived?"
"A county neighbour; he doesn't come very often."
"I'm sorry for that; I liked him," said Isabel.
"Why, it seemed to me that you barely spoke to him," Ralph objected.
"Never mind, I like him all the same. I like your father too,
immensely."
"You can't do better than that. He's the dearest of the dear."
"I'm so sorry he is ill," said Isabel.
"You must help me to nurse him; you ought to be a good nurse."
"I don't think I am; I've been told I'm not; I'm said to have too many
theories. But you haven't told me about the ghost," she added.
Ralph, however, gave no heed to this observation. "You like my father
and you like Lord Warburton. I infer also that you like my mother."
"I like your mother very much, because--because--" And Isabel found
herself attempting to assign a reason for her affection for Mrs.
Touchett.
"Ah, we never know why!" said her companion, laughing.
"I always know why," the girl answered. "It's because she doesn't expect
one to like her. She doesn't care whether one does or not."
"So you adore her--out of perversity? Well, I take greatly after my
mother," said Ralph.
"I don't believe you do at all. You wish people to like you, and you try
to make them do it."
"Good heavens, how you see through one!" he cried with a dismay that was
not altogether jocular.
"But I like you all the same," his cousin went on. "The way to clinch
the matter will be to show me the ghost."
Ralph shook his head sadly. "I might show it to you, but you'd never see
it. The privilege isn't given to every one; it's not enviable. It has
never been seen by a young, happy, innocent person like you. You must
have suffered first, have suffered greatly, have gained some miserable
knowledge. In that way your eyes are opened to it. I saw it long ago,"
said Ralph.
"I told you just now I'm very fond of knowledge," Isabel answered.
"Yes, of happy knowledge--of pleasant knowledge. But you haven't
suffered, and you're not made to suffer. I hope you'll never see the
ghost!"
She had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips, but with
a certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he found her, she had struck
him as rather presumptuous--indeed it was a part of her charm; and he
wondered what she would say. "I'm not afraid, you know," she said: which
seemed quite presumptuous enough.
"You're not afraid of suffering?"
"Yes, I'm afraid of suffering. But I'm not afraid of ghosts. And I think
people suffer too easily," she added.
"I don't believe you do," said Ralph, looking at her with his hands in
his pockets.
"I don't think that's a fault," she answered. "It's not absolutely
necessary to suffer; we were not made for that."
"You were not, certainly."
"I'm not speaking of myself." And she wandered off a little.
"No, it isn't a fault," said her cousin. "It's a merit to be strong."
"Only, if you don't suffer they call you hard," Isabel remarked.
They passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into which they had
returned from the gallery, and paused in the hall, at the foot of the
staircase. Here Ralph presented his companion with her bedroom candle,
which he had taken from a niche. "Never mind what they call you. When
you do suffer they call you an idiot. The great point's to be as happy
as possible."
She looked at him a little; she had taken her candle and placed her foot
on the oaken stair. "Well," she said, "that's what I came to Europe for,
to be as happy as possible. Good-night."
"Good-night! I wish you all success, and shall be very glad to
contribute to it!"
She turned away, and he watched her as she slowly ascended. Then, with
his hands always in his pockets, he went back to the empty drawing-room.
| The narrator, in Chapter 6, portrays Isabel in a less flattering light. She is naive and thinks highly of herself even though she has never been put to the test. He foreshadows that such a test though, will come, and that this test will test her philosophy that she can really appear as she really is. Will Isabel end up being a hypocrite in appearing to be something she is not? Henry James' early and mid-career novels often bring up the "American theme" in which an American goes to Europe, bringing some freshness, innocence, money, moral Puritanism and hope to a decadent culture. These Americans are often disappointed in their expectations though. The Touchetts are depicted as an American family who are successful in Europe in spite of their American qualities. Ralph though, notably, is not quite a success. He has money and European manners, but he has not married into the aristocratic class. When Isabel and her uncle discuss the prospect of Isabel's "success," the actual pathway to success seems unclear. It is altogether possible that Isabel conceives of such success in such abstract terms as her own like-ability, and that Mr. Touchett is thinking of it practically -- in terms of her ability to marry into the upper echelons of society, and to achieve the same respect that a European aristocrat would achieve. Isabel's mind does not seem quite capable of formulating the concrete idea of marriage, and instead her desire for love seems to be frightening to her, a very vague idea that she does not want to assume concrete form, since it might threaten her notion of independence. Either way, it is a difficult task to be "successful" in Europe, because Americans were seen as coming from a less-respected culture and a lack of tradition. Ralph's observation that Isabel has good taste in painting foreshadows that Isabel will find herself interested in European aesthetics, a conventional aspect of European culture, even while she contradictorily critiques "conventionality" in a general sense. | analysis |
Isabel Archer was a young person of many theories; her imagination was
remarkably active. It had been her fortune to possess a finer mind
than most of the persons among whom her lot was cast; to have a larger
perception of surrounding facts and to care for knowledge that was
tinged with the unfamiliar. It is true that among her contemporaries
she passed for a young woman of extraordinary profundity; for these
excellent people never withheld their admiration from a reach of
intellect of which they themselves were not conscious, and spoke of
Isabel as a prodigy of learning, a creature reported to have read the
classic authors--in translations. Her paternal aunt, Mrs. Varian, once
spread the rumour that Isabel was writing a book--Mrs. Varian having a
reverence for books, and averred that the girl would distinguish herself
in print. Mrs. Varian thought highly of literature, for which she
entertained that esteem that is connected with a sense of privation.
Her own large house, remarkable for its assortment of mosaic tables and
decorated ceilings, was unfurnished with a library, and in the way of
printed volumes contained nothing but half a dozen novels in paper on
a shelf in the apartment of one of the Miss Varians. Practically, Mrs.
Varian's acquaintance with literature was confined to The New York
Interviewer; as she very justly said, after you had read the Interviewer
you had lost all faith in culture. Her tendency, with this, was rather
to keep the Interviewer out of the way of her daughters; she was
determined to bring them up properly, and they read nothing at all. Her
impression with regard to Isabel's labours was quite illusory; the girl
had never attempted to write a book and had no desire for the laurels
of authorship. She had no talent for expression and too little of the
consciousness of genius; she only had a general idea that people were
right when they treated her as if she were rather superior. Whether or
no she were superior, people were right in admiring her if they thought
her so; for it seemed to her often that her mind moved more quickly
than theirs, and this encouraged an impatience that might easily be
confounded with superiority. It may be affirmed without delay that
Isabel was probably very liable to the sin of self-esteem; she often
surveyed with complacency the field of her own nature; she was in the
habit of taking for granted, on scanty evidence, that she was right;
she treated herself to occasions of homage. Meanwhile her errors and
delusions were frequently such as a biographer interested in preserving
the dignity of his subject must shrink from specifying. Her thoughts
were a tangle of vague outlines which had never been corrected by the
judgement of people speaking with authority. In matters of opinion
she had had her own way, and it had led her into a thousand ridiculous
zigzags. At moments she discovered she was grotesquely wrong, and then
she treated herself to a week of passionate humility. After this she
held her head higher than ever again; for it was of no use, she had an
unquenchable desire to think well of herself. She had a theory that it
was only under this provision life was worth living; that one should
be one of the best, should be conscious of a fine organisation (she
couldn't help knowing her organisation was fine), should move in a realm
of light, of natural wisdom, of happy impulse, of inspiration gracefully
chronic. It was almost as unnecessary to cultivate doubt of one's self
as to cultivate doubt of one's best friend: one should try to be one's
own best friend and to give one's self, in this manner, distinguished
company. The girl had a certain nobleness of imagination which rendered
her a good many services and played her a great many tricks. She spent
half her time in thinking of beauty and bravery and magnanimity; she had
a fixed determination to regard the world as a place of brightness, of
free expansion, of irresistible action: she held it must be detestable
to be afraid or ashamed. She had an infinite hope that she should never
do anything wrong. She had resented so strongly, after discovering them,
her mere errors of feeling (the discovery always made her tremble as if
she had escaped from a trap which might have caught her and smothered
her) that the chance of inflicting a sensible injury upon another
person, presented only as a contingency, caused her at moments to hold
her breath. That always struck her as the worst thing that could happen
to her. On the whole, reflectively, she was in no uncertainty about
the things that were wrong. She had no love of their look, but when
she fixed them hard she recognised them. It was wrong to be mean, to be
jealous, to be false, to be cruel; she had seen very little of the evil
of the world, but she had seen women who lied and who tried to hurt
each other. Seeing such things had quickened her high spirit; it seemed
indecent not to scorn them. Of course the danger of a high spirit was
the danger of inconsistency--the danger of keeping up the flag after the
place has surrendered; a sort of behaviour so crooked as to be almost
a dishonour to the flag. But Isabel, who knew little of the sorts of
artillery to which young women are exposed, flattered herself that such
contradictions would never be noted in her own conduct. Her life should
always be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she should
produce; she would be what she appeared, and she would appear what she
was. Sometimes she went so far as to wish that she might find herself
some day in a difficult position, so that she should have the pleasure
of being as heroic as the occasion demanded. Altogether, with her meagre
knowledge, her inflated ideals, her confidence at once innocent and
dogmatic, her temper at once exacting and indulgent, her mixture of
curiosity and fastidiousness, of vivacity and indifference, her desire
to look very well and to be if possible even better, her determination
to see, to try, to know, her combination of the delicate, desultory,
flame-like spirit and the eager and personal creature of conditions: she
would be an easy victim of scientific criticism if she were not intended
to awaken on the reader's part an impulse more tender and more purely
expectant.
It was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortunate in
being independent, and that she ought to make some very enlightened use
of that state. She never called it the state of solitude, much less of
singleness; she thought such descriptions weak, and, besides, her sister
Lily constantly urged her to come and abide. She had a friend whose
acquaintance she had made shortly before her father's death, who offered
so high an example of useful activity that Isabel always thought of her
as a model. Henrietta Stackpole had the advantage of an admired ability;
she was thoroughly launched in journalism, and her letters to the
Interviewer, from Washington, Newport, the White Mountains and other
places, were universally quoted. Isabel pronounced them with confidence
"ephemeral," but she esteemed the courage, energy and good-humour of the
writer, who, without parents and without property, had adopted three
of the children of an infirm and widowed sister and was paying their
school-bills out of the proceeds of her literary labour. Henrietta was
in the van of progress and had clear-cut views on most subjects; her
cherished desire had long been to come to Europe and write a series of
letters to the Interviewer from the radical point of view--an enterprise
the less difficult as she knew perfectly in advance what her opinions
would be and to how many objections most European institutions lay
open. When she heard that Isabel was coming she wished to start at once;
thinking, naturally, that it would be delightful the two should travel
together. She had been obliged, however, to postpone this enterprise.
She thought Isabel a glorious creature, and had spoken of her covertly
in some of her letters, though she never mentioned the fact to her
friend, who would not have taken pleasure in it and was not a regular
student of the Interviewer. Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof
that a woman might suffice to herself and be happy. Her resources were
of the obvious kind; but even if one had not the journalistic talent and
a genius for guessing, as Henrietta said, what the public was going to
want, one was not therefore to conclude that one had no vocation,
no beneficent aptitude of any sort, and resign one's self to being
frivolous and hollow. Isabel was stoutly determined not to be hollow. If
one should wait with the right patience one would find some happy work
to one's hand. Of course, among her theories, this young lady was not
without a collection of views on the subject of marriage. The first on
the list was a conviction of the vulgarity of thinking too much of it.
From lapsing into eagerness on this point she earnestly prayed she might
be delivered; she held that a woman ought to be able to live to herself,
in the absence of exceptional flimsiness, and that it was perfectly
possible to be happy without the society of a more or less coarse-minded
person of another sex. The girl's prayer was very sufficiently answered;
something pure and proud that there was in her--something cold and dry
an unappreciated suitor with a taste for analysis might have called
it--had hitherto kept her from any great vanity of conjecture on the
article of possible husbands. Few of the men she saw seemed worth a
ruinous expenditure, and it made her smile to think that one of them
should present himself as an incentive to hope and a reward of patience.
Deep in her soul--it was the deepest thing there--lay a belief that if
a certain light should dawn she could give herself completely; but
this image, on the whole, was too formidable to be attractive. Isabel's
thoughts hovered about it, but they seldom rested on it long; after a
little it ended in alarms. It often seemed to her that she thought too
much about herself; you could have made her colour, any day in the
year, by calling her a rank egoist. She was always planning out her
development, desiring her perfection, observing her progress. Her nature
had, in her conceit, a certain garden-like quality, a suggestion of
perfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers and lengthening vistas,
which made her feel that introspection was, after all, an exercise
in the open air, and that a visit to the recesses of one's spirit was
harmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses. But she was
often reminded that there were other gardens in the world than those of
her remarkable soul, and that there were moreover a great many places
which were not gardens at all--only dusky pestiferous tracts, planted
thick with ugliness and misery. In the current of that repaid curiosity
on which she had lately been floating, which had conveyed her to this
beautiful old England and might carry her much further still, she often
checked herself with the thought of the thousands of people who were
less happy than herself--a thought which for the moment made her fine,
full consciousness appear a kind of immodesty. What should one do with
the misery of the world in a scheme of the agreeable for one's self? It
must be confessed that this question never held her long. She was too
young, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She always
returned to her theory that a young woman whom after all every one
thought clever should begin by getting a general impression of life.
This impression was necessary to prevent mistakes, and after it should
be secured she might make the unfortunate condition of others a subject
of special attention.
England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as diverted as a
child at a pantomime. In her infantine excursions to Europe she had
seen only the Continent, and seen it from the nursery window; Paris, not
London, was her father's Mecca, and into many of his interests there his
children had naturally not entered. The images of that time moreover had
grown faint and remote, and the old-world quality in everything that
she now saw had all the charm of strangeness. Her uncle's house seemed a
picture made real; no refinement of the agreeable was lost upon
Isabel; the rich perfection of Gardencourt at once revealed a world and
gratified a need. The large, low rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky
corners, the deep embrasures and curious casements, the quiet light on
dark, polished panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always
peeping in, the sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a
"property"--a place where sounds were felicitously accidental, where
the tread was muffed by the earth itself and in the thick mild air all
friction dropped out of contact and all shrillness out of talk--these
things were much to the taste of our young lady, whose taste played a
considerable part in her emotions. She formed a fast friendship with her
uncle, and often sat by his chair when he had had it moved out to the
lawn. He passed hours in the open air, sitting with folded hands like
a placid, homely household god, a god of service, who had done his work
and received his wages and was trying to grow used to weeks and months
made up only of off-days. Isabel amused him more than she suspected--the
effect she produced upon people was often different from what she
supposed--and he frequently gave himself the pleasure of making her
chatter. It was by this term that he qualified her conversation, which
had much of the "point" observable in that of the young ladies of her
country, to whom the ear of the world is more directly presented than to
their sisters in other lands. Like the mass of American girls Isabel had
been encouraged to express herself; her remarks had been attended
to; she had been expected to have emotions and opinions. Many of her
opinions had doubtless but a slender value, many of her emotions passed
away in the utterance; but they had left a trace in giving her the habit
of seeming at least to feel and think, and in imparting moreover to
her words when she was really moved that prompt vividness which so many
people had regarded as a sign of superiority. Mr. Touchett used to think
that she reminded him of his wife when his wife was in her teens. It was
because she was fresh and natural and quick to understand, to speak--so
many characteristics of her niece--that he had fallen in love with Mrs.
Touchett. He never expressed this analogy to the girl herself, however;
for if Mrs. Touchett had once been like Isabel, Isabel was not at all
like Mrs. Touchett. The old man was full of kindness for her; it was a
long time, as he said, since they had had any young life in the house;
and our rustling, quickly-moving, clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable
to his sense as the sound of flowing water. He wanted to do something
for her and wished she would ask it of him. She would ask nothing but
questions; it is true that of these she asked a quantity. Her uncle had
a great fund of answers, though her pressure sometimes came in forms
that puzzled him. She questioned him immensely about England, about the
British constitution, the English character, the state of politics,
the manners and customs of the royal family, the peculiarities of the
aristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his neighbours; and in
begging to be enlightened on these points she usually enquired whether
they corresponded with the descriptions in the books. The old man always
looked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he smoothed down
the shawl spread across his legs.
"The books?" he once said; "well, I don't know much about the books. You
must ask Ralph about that. I've always ascertained for myself--got my
information in the natural form. I never asked many questions even;
I just kept quiet and took notice. Of course I've had very good
opportunities--better than what a young lady would naturally have. I'm
of an inquisitive disposition, though you mightn't think it if you were
to watch me: however much you might watch me I should be watching you
more. I've been watching these people for upwards of thirty-five years,
and I don't hesitate to say that I've acquired considerable information.
It's a very fine country on the whole--finer perhaps than what we give
it credit for on the other side. Several improvements I should like to
see introduced; but the necessity of them doesn't seem to be generally
felt as yet. When the necessity of a thing is generally felt they
usually manage to accomplish it; but they seem to feel pretty
comfortable about waiting till then. I certainly feel more at home among
them than I expected to when I first came over; I suppose it's because
I've had a considerable degree of success. When you're successful you
naturally feel more at home."
"Do you suppose that if I'm successful I shall feel at home?" Isabel
asked.
"I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be successful.
They like American young ladies very much over here; they show them
a great deal of kindness. But you mustn't feel too much at home, you
know."
"Oh, I'm by no means sure it will satisfy me," Isabel judicially
emphasised. "I like the place very much, but I'm not sure I shall like
the people."
"The people are very good people; especially if you like them."
"I've no doubt they're good," Isabel rejoined; "but are they pleasant
in society? They won't rob me nor beat me; but will they make themselves
agreeable to me? That's what I like people to do. I don't hesitate to
say so, because I always appreciate it. I don't believe they're very
nice to girls; they're not nice to them in the novels."
"I don't know about the novels," said Mr. Touchett. "I believe the
novels have a great deal but I don't suppose they're very accurate.
We once had a lady who wrote novels staying here; she was a friend
of Ralph's and he asked her down. She was very positive, quite up to
everything; but she was not the sort of person you could depend on
for evidence. Too free a fancy--I suppose that was it. She afterwards
published a work of fiction in which she was understood to have given
a representation--something in the nature of a caricature, as you might
say--of my unworthy self. I didn't read it, but Ralph just handed me
the book with the principal passages marked. It was understood to be
a description of my conversation; American peculiarities, nasal twang,
Yankee notions, stars and stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate;
she couldn't have listened very attentively. I had no objection to her
giving a report of my conversation, if she liked but I didn't like the
idea that she hadn't taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk
like an American--I can't talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, I've
made them understand me pretty well over here. But I don't talk like the
old gentleman in that lady's novel. He wasn't an American; we wouldn't
have him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you
that they're not always accurate. Of course, as I've no daughters,
and as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven't had much chance
to notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young
women in the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess their
position is better in the upper and even to some extent in the middle."
"Gracious," Isabel exclaimed; "how many classes have they? About fifty,
I suppose."
"Well, I don't know that I ever counted them. I never took much notice
of the classes. That's the advantage of being an American here; you
don't belong to any class."
"I hope so," said Isabel. "Imagine one's belonging to an English class!"
"Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortable--especially towards
the top. But for me there are only two classes: the people I trust and
the people I don't. Of those two, my dear Isabel, you belong to the
first."
"I'm much obliged to you," said the girl quickly. Her way of taking
compliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got rid of them as rapidly
as possible. But as regards this she was sometimes misjudged; she was
thought insensible to them, whereas in fact she was simply unwilling to
show how infinitely they pleased her. To show that was to show too much.
"I'm sure the English are very conventional," she added.
"They've got everything pretty well fixed," Mr. Touchett admitted. "It's
all settled beforehand--they don't leave it to the last moment."
"I don't like to have everything settled beforehand," said the girl. "I
like more unexpectedness."
Her uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference. "Well, it's
settled beforehand that you'll have great success," he rejoined. "I
suppose you'll like that."
"I shall not have success if they're too stupidly conventional. I'm not
in the least stupidly conventional. I'm just the contrary. That's what
they won't like."
"No, no, you're all wrong," said the old man. "You can't tell what
they'll like. They're very inconsistent; that's their principal
interest."
"Ah well," said Isabel, standing before her uncle with her hands
clasped about the belt of her black dress and looking up and down the
lawn--"that will suit me perfectly!"
| In Chapter 6, the narrator embarks on more description of Isabel's history, and other's perceptions of her. He describes Isabel as being an active young person "of many theories" with a "finer mind" than most others, and a "larger perception" of facts. One of her aunts, Mrs. Varian, once started a rumor that she was writing a novel, but Isabel had never attempted to do so. She is not a novelist, for she has no talent for expression. She is not exactly a genius, but she does regard herself highly, thinking that people are right in treating her as superior. Thus the narrator says she might be guilty of the "sin of self-esteem". Her actual thoughts though are described as a "tangle of vague outlines which had never been corrected by the judgment of people speaking with authority" and she had her own, stubborn way in her own unclear opinions. It seems to be her philosophy that life was only worth living if one thinks well of one's self. According to her, the worst thing that could happen to her seems to be that she might cause injury to someone else. She is unaware of the evil in the world, and flattered herself that she would never sink to the dangers of inconsistency which high self-esteem often brought: "Her life should always be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she could produce; she would be what she appeared, and she would appear what she was". She sometimes even imagines herself finding herself in a difficult, so that she might arise as a hero of the occasion, and prove herself. The narrator muses that Isabel might be a subject worthy of a scientific criticism were it not for her tendency to awaken the reader's tenderness. Isabel has a friend named Henrietta Stackpole, who is a journalist and financially independent. Henrietta is representative of a progressive woman who has "clear cut views" and is very radically liberal. Isabel thinks Henrietta is proof that a woman can be independent and happy. In respect to her own independence, Isabel's "deepest" thought in her mind is described as being the belief that she could give herself completely if a man should present herself as a husband, but she also finds the image "formidable" more than "attractive". Her mind only hovers around this thought. She sometimes even feels that she is immodest in being so happy, thinking others less unfortunate than herself. Overall she returns to the general theory that a young woman who everyone thinks is clever needs to get a "general impression of life". Isabel and her uncle get along quite well. She asks him many questions, and he provides her with a great number of answers about British politics and manners, neighborhood gossip. Isabel wonders if his description of things accords with the descriptions in books; and he responds that he would not know, having been always interested in finding things out in their natural form. Isabel notes that the people in Europe are not very kind to girls in novels, and wonders if they will similarly abuse her. Mr. Touchett notes that he was once incorporated into a novelist's description of England in a caricatured form -- and thus, people in novels are not always depicted accurately. He also expresses to Isabel that one advantage of being an American in Europe is that one does not belong to any class, unlike Europeans, who all belong to a class. Isabel thinks she will not be successful in Europe if Europeans prove to be conventional. Mr. Touchett thinks it's already been settled that Isabel will be a "success" in Europe | summary |
Isabel Archer was a young person of many theories; her imagination was
remarkably active. It had been her fortune to possess a finer mind
than most of the persons among whom her lot was cast; to have a larger
perception of surrounding facts and to care for knowledge that was
tinged with the unfamiliar. It is true that among her contemporaries
she passed for a young woman of extraordinary profundity; for these
excellent people never withheld their admiration from a reach of
intellect of which they themselves were not conscious, and spoke of
Isabel as a prodigy of learning, a creature reported to have read the
classic authors--in translations. Her paternal aunt, Mrs. Varian, once
spread the rumour that Isabel was writing a book--Mrs. Varian having a
reverence for books, and averred that the girl would distinguish herself
in print. Mrs. Varian thought highly of literature, for which she
entertained that esteem that is connected with a sense of privation.
Her own large house, remarkable for its assortment of mosaic tables and
decorated ceilings, was unfurnished with a library, and in the way of
printed volumes contained nothing but half a dozen novels in paper on
a shelf in the apartment of one of the Miss Varians. Practically, Mrs.
Varian's acquaintance with literature was confined to The New York
Interviewer; as she very justly said, after you had read the Interviewer
you had lost all faith in culture. Her tendency, with this, was rather
to keep the Interviewer out of the way of her daughters; she was
determined to bring them up properly, and they read nothing at all. Her
impression with regard to Isabel's labours was quite illusory; the girl
had never attempted to write a book and had no desire for the laurels
of authorship. She had no talent for expression and too little of the
consciousness of genius; she only had a general idea that people were
right when they treated her as if she were rather superior. Whether or
no she were superior, people were right in admiring her if they thought
her so; for it seemed to her often that her mind moved more quickly
than theirs, and this encouraged an impatience that might easily be
confounded with superiority. It may be affirmed without delay that
Isabel was probably very liable to the sin of self-esteem; she often
surveyed with complacency the field of her own nature; she was in the
habit of taking for granted, on scanty evidence, that she was right;
she treated herself to occasions of homage. Meanwhile her errors and
delusions were frequently such as a biographer interested in preserving
the dignity of his subject must shrink from specifying. Her thoughts
were a tangle of vague outlines which had never been corrected by the
judgement of people speaking with authority. In matters of opinion
she had had her own way, and it had led her into a thousand ridiculous
zigzags. At moments she discovered she was grotesquely wrong, and then
she treated herself to a week of passionate humility. After this she
held her head higher than ever again; for it was of no use, she had an
unquenchable desire to think well of herself. She had a theory that it
was only under this provision life was worth living; that one should
be one of the best, should be conscious of a fine organisation (she
couldn't help knowing her organisation was fine), should move in a realm
of light, of natural wisdom, of happy impulse, of inspiration gracefully
chronic. It was almost as unnecessary to cultivate doubt of one's self
as to cultivate doubt of one's best friend: one should try to be one's
own best friend and to give one's self, in this manner, distinguished
company. The girl had a certain nobleness of imagination which rendered
her a good many services and played her a great many tricks. She spent
half her time in thinking of beauty and bravery and magnanimity; she had
a fixed determination to regard the world as a place of brightness, of
free expansion, of irresistible action: she held it must be detestable
to be afraid or ashamed. She had an infinite hope that she should never
do anything wrong. She had resented so strongly, after discovering them,
her mere errors of feeling (the discovery always made her tremble as if
she had escaped from a trap which might have caught her and smothered
her) that the chance of inflicting a sensible injury upon another
person, presented only as a contingency, caused her at moments to hold
her breath. That always struck her as the worst thing that could happen
to her. On the whole, reflectively, she was in no uncertainty about
the things that were wrong. She had no love of their look, but when
she fixed them hard she recognised them. It was wrong to be mean, to be
jealous, to be false, to be cruel; she had seen very little of the evil
of the world, but she had seen women who lied and who tried to hurt
each other. Seeing such things had quickened her high spirit; it seemed
indecent not to scorn them. Of course the danger of a high spirit was
the danger of inconsistency--the danger of keeping up the flag after the
place has surrendered; a sort of behaviour so crooked as to be almost
a dishonour to the flag. But Isabel, who knew little of the sorts of
artillery to which young women are exposed, flattered herself that such
contradictions would never be noted in her own conduct. Her life should
always be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she should
produce; she would be what she appeared, and she would appear what she
was. Sometimes she went so far as to wish that she might find herself
some day in a difficult position, so that she should have the pleasure
of being as heroic as the occasion demanded. Altogether, with her meagre
knowledge, her inflated ideals, her confidence at once innocent and
dogmatic, her temper at once exacting and indulgent, her mixture of
curiosity and fastidiousness, of vivacity and indifference, her desire
to look very well and to be if possible even better, her determination
to see, to try, to know, her combination of the delicate, desultory,
flame-like spirit and the eager and personal creature of conditions: she
would be an easy victim of scientific criticism if she were not intended
to awaken on the reader's part an impulse more tender and more purely
expectant.
It was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortunate in
being independent, and that she ought to make some very enlightened use
of that state. She never called it the state of solitude, much less of
singleness; she thought such descriptions weak, and, besides, her sister
Lily constantly urged her to come and abide. She had a friend whose
acquaintance she had made shortly before her father's death, who offered
so high an example of useful activity that Isabel always thought of her
as a model. Henrietta Stackpole had the advantage of an admired ability;
she was thoroughly launched in journalism, and her letters to the
Interviewer, from Washington, Newport, the White Mountains and other
places, were universally quoted. Isabel pronounced them with confidence
"ephemeral," but she esteemed the courage, energy and good-humour of the
writer, who, without parents and without property, had adopted three
of the children of an infirm and widowed sister and was paying their
school-bills out of the proceeds of her literary labour. Henrietta was
in the van of progress and had clear-cut views on most subjects; her
cherished desire had long been to come to Europe and write a series of
letters to the Interviewer from the radical point of view--an enterprise
the less difficult as she knew perfectly in advance what her opinions
would be and to how many objections most European institutions lay
open. When she heard that Isabel was coming she wished to start at once;
thinking, naturally, that it would be delightful the two should travel
together. She had been obliged, however, to postpone this enterprise.
She thought Isabel a glorious creature, and had spoken of her covertly
in some of her letters, though she never mentioned the fact to her
friend, who would not have taken pleasure in it and was not a regular
student of the Interviewer. Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof
that a woman might suffice to herself and be happy. Her resources were
of the obvious kind; but even if one had not the journalistic talent and
a genius for guessing, as Henrietta said, what the public was going to
want, one was not therefore to conclude that one had no vocation,
no beneficent aptitude of any sort, and resign one's self to being
frivolous and hollow. Isabel was stoutly determined not to be hollow. If
one should wait with the right patience one would find some happy work
to one's hand. Of course, among her theories, this young lady was not
without a collection of views on the subject of marriage. The first on
the list was a conviction of the vulgarity of thinking too much of it.
From lapsing into eagerness on this point she earnestly prayed she might
be delivered; she held that a woman ought to be able to live to herself,
in the absence of exceptional flimsiness, and that it was perfectly
possible to be happy without the society of a more or less coarse-minded
person of another sex. The girl's prayer was very sufficiently answered;
something pure and proud that there was in her--something cold and dry
an unappreciated suitor with a taste for analysis might have called
it--had hitherto kept her from any great vanity of conjecture on the
article of possible husbands. Few of the men she saw seemed worth a
ruinous expenditure, and it made her smile to think that one of them
should present himself as an incentive to hope and a reward of patience.
Deep in her soul--it was the deepest thing there--lay a belief that if
a certain light should dawn she could give herself completely; but
this image, on the whole, was too formidable to be attractive. Isabel's
thoughts hovered about it, but they seldom rested on it long; after a
little it ended in alarms. It often seemed to her that she thought too
much about herself; you could have made her colour, any day in the
year, by calling her a rank egoist. She was always planning out her
development, desiring her perfection, observing her progress. Her nature
had, in her conceit, a certain garden-like quality, a suggestion of
perfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers and lengthening vistas,
which made her feel that introspection was, after all, an exercise
in the open air, and that a visit to the recesses of one's spirit was
harmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses. But she was
often reminded that there were other gardens in the world than those of
her remarkable soul, and that there were moreover a great many places
which were not gardens at all--only dusky pestiferous tracts, planted
thick with ugliness and misery. In the current of that repaid curiosity
on which she had lately been floating, which had conveyed her to this
beautiful old England and might carry her much further still, she often
checked herself with the thought of the thousands of people who were
less happy than herself--a thought which for the moment made her fine,
full consciousness appear a kind of immodesty. What should one do with
the misery of the world in a scheme of the agreeable for one's self? It
must be confessed that this question never held her long. She was too
young, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She always
returned to her theory that a young woman whom after all every one
thought clever should begin by getting a general impression of life.
This impression was necessary to prevent mistakes, and after it should
be secured she might make the unfortunate condition of others a subject
of special attention.
England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as diverted as a
child at a pantomime. In her infantine excursions to Europe she had
seen only the Continent, and seen it from the nursery window; Paris, not
London, was her father's Mecca, and into many of his interests there his
children had naturally not entered. The images of that time moreover had
grown faint and remote, and the old-world quality in everything that
she now saw had all the charm of strangeness. Her uncle's house seemed a
picture made real; no refinement of the agreeable was lost upon
Isabel; the rich perfection of Gardencourt at once revealed a world and
gratified a need. The large, low rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky
corners, the deep embrasures and curious casements, the quiet light on
dark, polished panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always
peeping in, the sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a
"property"--a place where sounds were felicitously accidental, where
the tread was muffed by the earth itself and in the thick mild air all
friction dropped out of contact and all shrillness out of talk--these
things were much to the taste of our young lady, whose taste played a
considerable part in her emotions. She formed a fast friendship with her
uncle, and often sat by his chair when he had had it moved out to the
lawn. He passed hours in the open air, sitting with folded hands like
a placid, homely household god, a god of service, who had done his work
and received his wages and was trying to grow used to weeks and months
made up only of off-days. Isabel amused him more than she suspected--the
effect she produced upon people was often different from what she
supposed--and he frequently gave himself the pleasure of making her
chatter. It was by this term that he qualified her conversation, which
had much of the "point" observable in that of the young ladies of her
country, to whom the ear of the world is more directly presented than to
their sisters in other lands. Like the mass of American girls Isabel had
been encouraged to express herself; her remarks had been attended
to; she had been expected to have emotions and opinions. Many of her
opinions had doubtless but a slender value, many of her emotions passed
away in the utterance; but they had left a trace in giving her the habit
of seeming at least to feel and think, and in imparting moreover to
her words when she was really moved that prompt vividness which so many
people had regarded as a sign of superiority. Mr. Touchett used to think
that she reminded him of his wife when his wife was in her teens. It was
because she was fresh and natural and quick to understand, to speak--so
many characteristics of her niece--that he had fallen in love with Mrs.
Touchett. He never expressed this analogy to the girl herself, however;
for if Mrs. Touchett had once been like Isabel, Isabel was not at all
like Mrs. Touchett. The old man was full of kindness for her; it was a
long time, as he said, since they had had any young life in the house;
and our rustling, quickly-moving, clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable
to his sense as the sound of flowing water. He wanted to do something
for her and wished she would ask it of him. She would ask nothing but
questions; it is true that of these she asked a quantity. Her uncle had
a great fund of answers, though her pressure sometimes came in forms
that puzzled him. She questioned him immensely about England, about the
British constitution, the English character, the state of politics,
the manners and customs of the royal family, the peculiarities of the
aristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his neighbours; and in
begging to be enlightened on these points she usually enquired whether
they corresponded with the descriptions in the books. The old man always
looked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he smoothed down
the shawl spread across his legs.
"The books?" he once said; "well, I don't know much about the books. You
must ask Ralph about that. I've always ascertained for myself--got my
information in the natural form. I never asked many questions even;
I just kept quiet and took notice. Of course I've had very good
opportunities--better than what a young lady would naturally have. I'm
of an inquisitive disposition, though you mightn't think it if you were
to watch me: however much you might watch me I should be watching you
more. I've been watching these people for upwards of thirty-five years,
and I don't hesitate to say that I've acquired considerable information.
It's a very fine country on the whole--finer perhaps than what we give
it credit for on the other side. Several improvements I should like to
see introduced; but the necessity of them doesn't seem to be generally
felt as yet. When the necessity of a thing is generally felt they
usually manage to accomplish it; but they seem to feel pretty
comfortable about waiting till then. I certainly feel more at home among
them than I expected to when I first came over; I suppose it's because
I've had a considerable degree of success. When you're successful you
naturally feel more at home."
"Do you suppose that if I'm successful I shall feel at home?" Isabel
asked.
"I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be successful.
They like American young ladies very much over here; they show them
a great deal of kindness. But you mustn't feel too much at home, you
know."
"Oh, I'm by no means sure it will satisfy me," Isabel judicially
emphasised. "I like the place very much, but I'm not sure I shall like
the people."
"The people are very good people; especially if you like them."
"I've no doubt they're good," Isabel rejoined; "but are they pleasant
in society? They won't rob me nor beat me; but will they make themselves
agreeable to me? That's what I like people to do. I don't hesitate to
say so, because I always appreciate it. I don't believe they're very
nice to girls; they're not nice to them in the novels."
"I don't know about the novels," said Mr. Touchett. "I believe the
novels have a great deal but I don't suppose they're very accurate.
We once had a lady who wrote novels staying here; she was a friend
of Ralph's and he asked her down. She was very positive, quite up to
everything; but she was not the sort of person you could depend on
for evidence. Too free a fancy--I suppose that was it. She afterwards
published a work of fiction in which she was understood to have given
a representation--something in the nature of a caricature, as you might
say--of my unworthy self. I didn't read it, but Ralph just handed me
the book with the principal passages marked. It was understood to be
a description of my conversation; American peculiarities, nasal twang,
Yankee notions, stars and stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate;
she couldn't have listened very attentively. I had no objection to her
giving a report of my conversation, if she liked but I didn't like the
idea that she hadn't taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk
like an American--I can't talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, I've
made them understand me pretty well over here. But I don't talk like the
old gentleman in that lady's novel. He wasn't an American; we wouldn't
have him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you
that they're not always accurate. Of course, as I've no daughters,
and as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven't had much chance
to notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young
women in the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess their
position is better in the upper and even to some extent in the middle."
"Gracious," Isabel exclaimed; "how many classes have they? About fifty,
I suppose."
"Well, I don't know that I ever counted them. I never took much notice
of the classes. That's the advantage of being an American here; you
don't belong to any class."
"I hope so," said Isabel. "Imagine one's belonging to an English class!"
"Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortable--especially towards
the top. But for me there are only two classes: the people I trust and
the people I don't. Of those two, my dear Isabel, you belong to the
first."
"I'm much obliged to you," said the girl quickly. Her way of taking
compliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got rid of them as rapidly
as possible. But as regards this she was sometimes misjudged; she was
thought insensible to them, whereas in fact she was simply unwilling to
show how infinitely they pleased her. To show that was to show too much.
"I'm sure the English are very conventional," she added.
"They've got everything pretty well fixed," Mr. Touchett admitted. "It's
all settled beforehand--they don't leave it to the last moment."
"I don't like to have everything settled beforehand," said the girl. "I
like more unexpectedness."
Her uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference. "Well, it's
settled beforehand that you'll have great success," he rejoined. "I
suppose you'll like that."
"I shall not have success if they're too stupidly conventional. I'm not
in the least stupidly conventional. I'm just the contrary. That's what
they won't like."
"No, no, you're all wrong," said the old man. "You can't tell what
they'll like. They're very inconsistent; that's their principal
interest."
"Ah well," said Isabel, standing before her uncle with her hands
clasped about the belt of her black dress and looking up and down the
lawn--"that will suit me perfectly!"
| The narrator, in Chapter 6, portrays Isabel in a less flattering light. She is naive and thinks highly of herself even though she has never been put to the test. He foreshadows that such a test though, will come, and that this test will test her philosophy that she can really appear as she really is. Will Isabel end up being a hypocrite in appearing to be something she is not? Henry James' early and mid-career novels often bring up the "American theme" in which an American goes to Europe, bringing some freshness, innocence, money, moral Puritanism and hope to a decadent culture. These Americans are often disappointed in their expectations though. The Touchetts are depicted as an American family who are successful in Europe in spite of their American qualities. Ralph though, notably, is not quite a success. He has money and European manners, but he has not married into the aristocratic class. When Isabel and her uncle discuss the prospect of Isabel's "success," the actual pathway to success seems unclear. It is altogether possible that Isabel conceives of such success in such abstract terms as her own like-ability, and that Mr. Touchett is thinking of it practically -- in terms of her ability to marry into the upper echelons of society, and to achieve the same respect that a European aristocrat would achieve. Isabel's mind does not seem quite capable of formulating the concrete idea of marriage, and instead her desire for love seems to be frightening to her, a very vague idea that she does not want to assume concrete form, since it might threaten her notion of independence. Either way, it is a difficult task to be "successful" in Europe, because Americans were seen as coming from a less-respected culture and a lack of tradition. Ralph's observation that Isabel has good taste in painting foreshadows that Isabel will find herself interested in European aesthetics, a conventional aspect of European culture, even while she contradictorily critiques "conventionality" in a general sense. | analysis |
The two amused themselves, time and again, with talking of the attitude
of the British public as if the young lady had been in a position to
appeal to it; but in fact the British public remained for the present
profoundly indifferent to Miss Isabel Archer, whose fortune had dropped
her, as her cousin said, into the dullest house in England. Her gouty
uncle received very little company, and Mrs. Touchett, not having
cultivated relations with her husband's neighbours, was not warranted
in expecting visits from them. She had, however, a peculiar taste; she
liked to receive cards. For what is usually called social intercourse
she had very little relish; but nothing pleased her more than to find
her hall-table whitened with oblong morsels of symbolic pasteboard. She
flattered herself that she was a very just woman, and had mastered the
sovereign truth that nothing in this world is got for nothing. She had
played no social part as mistress of Gardencourt, and it was not to be
supposed that, in the surrounding country, a minute account should be
kept of her comings and goings. But it is by no means certain that she
did not feel it to be wrong that so little notice was taken of them and
that her failure (really very gratuitous) to make herself important in
the neighbourhood had not much to do with the acrimony of her allusions
to her husband's adopted country. Isabel presently found herself in the
singular situation of defending the British constitution against her
aunt; Mrs. Touchett having formed the habit of sticking pins into this
venerable instrument. Isabel always felt an impulse to pull out the
pins; not that she imagined they inflicted any damage on the tough old
parchment, but because it seemed to her her aunt might make better use
of her sharpness. She was very critical herself--it was incidental to
her age, her sex and her nationality; but she was very sentimental as
well, and there was something in Mrs. Touchett's dryness that set her
own moral fountains flowing.
"Now what's your point of view?" she asked of her aunt. "When you
criticise everything here you should have a point of view. Yours doesn't
seem to be American--you thought everything over there so disagreeable.
When I criticise I have mine; it's thoroughly American!"
"My dear young lady," said Mrs. Touchett, "there are as many points of
view in the world as there are people of sense to take them. You may
say that doesn't make them very numerous! American? Never in the world;
that's shockingly narrow. My point of view, thank God, is personal!"
Isabel thought this a better answer than she admitted; it was a
tolerable description of her own manner of judging, but it would not
have sounded well for her to say so. On the lips of a person less
advanced in life and less enlightened by experience than Mrs. Touchett
such a declaration would savour of immodesty, even of arrogance. She
risked it nevertheless in talking with Ralph, with whom she talked a
great deal and with whom her conversation was of a sort that gave a
large licence to extravagance. Her cousin used, as the phrase is, to
chaff her; he very soon established with her a reputation for treating
everything as a joke, and he was not a man to neglect the privileges
such a reputation conferred. She accused him of an odious want of
seriousness, of laughing at all things, beginning with himself. Such
slender faculty of reverence as he possessed centred wholly upon his
father; for the rest, he exercised his wit indifferently upon his
father's son, this gentleman's weak lungs, his useless life, his
fantastic mother, his friends (Lord Warburton in especial), his adopted,
and his native country, his charming new-found cousin. "I keep a band
of music in my ante-room," he said once to her. "It has orders to play
without stopping; it renders me two excellent services. It keeps the
sounds of the world from reaching the private apartments, and it makes
the world think that dancing's going on within." It was dance-music
indeed that you usually heard when you came within ear-shot of Ralph's
band; the liveliest waltzes seemed to float upon the air. Isabel often
found herself irritated by this perpetual fiddling; she would have liked
to pass through the ante-room, as her cousin called it, and enter the
private apartments. It mattered little that he had assured her they were
a very dismal place; she would have been glad to undertake to sweep them
and set them in order. It was but half-hospitality to let her remain
outside; to punish him for which Isabel administered innumerable taps
with the ferule of her straight young wit. It must be said that her wit
was exercised to a large extent in self-defence, for her cousin amused
himself with calling her "Columbia" and accusing her of a patriotism so
heated that it scorched. He drew a caricature of her in which she was
represented as a very pretty young woman dressed, on the lines of the
prevailing fashion, in the folds of the national banner. Isabel's chief
dread in life at this period of her development was that she should
appear narrow-minded; what she feared next afterwards was that she
should really be so. But she nevertheless made no scruple of abounding
in her cousin's sense and pretending to sigh for the charms of her
native land. She would be as American as it pleased him to regard her,
and if he chose to laugh at her she would give him plenty of occupation.
She defended England against his mother, but when Ralph sang its praises
on purpose, as she said, to work her up, she found herself able to
differ from him on a variety of points. In fact, the quality of this
small ripe country seemed as sweet to her as the taste of an October
pear; and her satisfaction was at the root of the good spirits which
enabled her to take her cousin's chaff and return it in kind. If her
good-humour flagged at moments it was not because she thought herself
ill-used, but because she suddenly felt sorry for Ralph. It seemed to
her he was talking as a blind and had little heart in what he said. "I
don't know what's the matter with you," she observed to him once; "but I
suspect you're a great humbug."
"That's your privilege," Ralph answered, who had not been used to being
so crudely addressed.
"I don't know what you care for; I don't think you care for anything.
You don't really care for England when you praise it; you don't care for
America even when you pretend to abuse it."
"I care for nothing but you, dear cousin," said Ralph.
"If I could believe even that, I should be very glad."
"Ah well, I should hope so!" the young man exclaimed.
Isabel might have believed it and not have been far from the truth. He
thought a great deal about her; she was constantly present to his mind.
At a time when his thoughts had been a good deal of a burden to him her
sudden arrival, which promised nothing and was an open-handed gift of
fate, had refreshed and quickened them, given them wings and something
to fly for. Poor Ralph had been for many weeks steeped in melancholy;
his outlook, habitually sombre, lay under the shadow of a deeper cloud.
He had grown anxious about his father, whose gout, hitherto confined to
his legs, had begun to ascend into regions more vital. The old man had
been gravely ill in the spring, and the doctors had whispered to
Ralph that another attack would be less easy to deal with. Just now
he appeared disburdened of pain, but Ralph could not rid himself of a
suspicion that this was a subterfuge of the enemy, who was waiting to
take him off his guard. If the manoeuvre should succeed there would be
little hope of any great resistance. Ralph had always taken for granted
that his father would survive him--that his own name would be the first
grimly called. The father and son had been close companions, and the
idea of being left alone with the remnant of a tasteless life on his
hands was not gratifying to the young man, who had always and tacitly
counted upon his elder's help in making the best of a poor business.
At the prospect of losing his great motive Ralph lost indeed his one
inspiration. If they might die at the same time it would be all very
well; but without the encouragement of his father's society he should
barely have patience to await his own turn. He had not the incentive of
feeling that he was indispensable to his mother; it was a rule with his
mother to have no regrets. He bethought himself of course that it had
been a small kindness to his father to wish that, of the two, the active
rather than the passive party should know the felt wound; he remembered
that the old man had always treated his own forecast of an early end as
a clever fallacy, which he should be delighted to discredit so far as
he might by dying first. But of the two triumphs, that of refuting a
sophistical son and that of holding on a while longer to a state of
being which, with all abatements, he enjoyed, Ralph deemed it no sin to
hope the latter might be vouchsafed to Mr. Touchett.
These were nice questions, but Isabel's arrival put a stop to his
puzzling over them. It even suggested there might be a compensation for
the intolerable ennui of surviving his genial sire. He wondered whether
he were harbouring "love" for this spontaneous young woman from Albany;
but he judged that on the whole he was not. After he had known her for
a week he quite made up his mind to this, and every day he felt a little
more sure. Lord Warburton had been right about her; she was a really
interesting little figure. Ralph wondered how their neighbour had
found it out so soon; and then he said it was only another proof of his
friend's high abilities, which he had always greatly admired. If his
cousin were to be nothing more than an entertainment to him, Ralph was
conscious she was an entertainment of a high order. "A character like
that," he said to himself--"a real little passionate force to see at
play is the finest thing in nature. It's finer than the finest work
of art--than a Greek bas-relief, than a great Titian, than a Gothic
cathedral. It's very pleasant to be so well treated where one had least
looked for it. I had never been more blue, more bored, than for a week
before she came; I had never expected less that anything pleasant would
happen. Suddenly I receive a Titian, by the post, to hang on my wall--a
Greek bas-relief to stick over my chimney-piece. The key of a beautiful
edifice is thrust into my hand, and I'm told to walk in and admire. My
poor boy, you've been sadly ungrateful, and now you had better keep very
quiet and never grumble again." The sentiment of these reflexions was
very just; but it was not exactly true that Ralph Touchett had had a key
put into his hand. His cousin was a very brilliant girl, who would take,
as he said, a good deal of knowing; but she needed the knowing, and his
attitude with regard to her, though it was contemplative and critical,
was not judicial. He surveyed the edifice from the outside and admired
it greatly; he looked in at the windows and received an impression of
proportions equally fair. But he felt that he saw it only by glimpses
and that he had not yet stood under the roof. The door was fastened, and
though he had keys in his pocket he had a conviction that none of them
would fit. She was intelligent and generous; it was a fine free nature;
but what was she going to do with herself? This question was irregular,
for with most women one had no occasion to ask it. Most women did
with themselves nothing at all; they waited, in attitudes more or less
gracefully passive, for a man to come that way and furnish them with
a destiny. Isabel's originality was that she gave one an impression of
having intentions of her own. "Whenever she executes them," said Ralph,
"may I be there to see!"
It devolved upon him of course to do the honours of the place. Mr.
Touchett was confined to his chair, and his wife's position was that of
rather a grim visitor; so that in the line of conduct that opened itself
to Ralph duty and inclination were harmoniously mixed. He was not a
great walker, but he strolled about the grounds with his cousin--a
pastime for which the weather remained favourable with a persistency not
allowed for in Isabel's somewhat lugubrious prevision of the climate;
and in the long afternoons, of which the length was but the measure of
her gratified eagerness, they took a boat on the river, the dear little
river, as Isabel called it, where the opposite shore seemed still a
part of the foreground of the landscape; or drove over the country in a
phaeton--a low, capacious, thick-wheeled phaeton formerly much used by
Mr. Touchett, but which he had now ceased to enjoy. Isabel enjoyed it
largely and, handling the reins in a manner which approved itself to
the groom as "knowing," was never weary of driving her uncle's capital
horses through winding lanes and byways full of the rural incidents she
had confidently expected to find; past cottages thatched and timbered,
past ale-houses latticed and sanded, past patches of ancient common and
glimpses of empty parks, between hedgerows made thick by midsummer. When
they reached home they usually found tea had been served on the lawn
and that Mrs. Touchett had not shrunk from the extremity of handing her
husband his cup. But the two for the most part sat silent; the old
man with his head back and his eyes closed, his wife occupied with her
knitting and wearing that appearance of rare profundity with which some
ladies consider the movement of their needles.
One day, however, a visitor had arrived. The two young persons, after
spending an hour on the river, strolled back to the house and perceived
Lord Warburton sitting under the trees and engaged in conversation, of
which even at a distance the desultory character was appreciable, with
Mrs. Touchett. He had driven over from his own place with a portmanteau
and had asked, as the father and son often invited him to do, for a
dinner and a lodging. Isabel, seeing him for half an hour on the day of
her arrival, had discovered in this brief space that she liked him; he
had indeed rather sharply registered himself on her fine sense and
she had thought of him several times. She had hoped she should see him
again--hoped too that she should see a few others. Gardencourt was not
dull; the place itself was sovereign, her uncle was more and more a
sort of golden grandfather, and Ralph was unlike any cousin she had
ever encountered--her idea of cousins having tended to gloom. Then her
impressions were still so fresh and so quickly renewed that there was as
yet hardly a hint of vacancy in the view. But Isabel had need to remind
herself that she was interested in human nature and that her foremost
hope in coming abroad had been that she should see a great many people.
When Ralph said to her, as he had done several times, "I wonder you find
this endurable; you ought to see some of the neighbours and some of
our friends, because we have really got a few, though you would never
suppose it"--when he offered to invite what he called a "lot of people"
and make her acquainted with English society, she encouraged the
hospitable impulse and promised in advance to hurl herself into the
fray. Little, however, for the present, had come of his offers, and it
may be confided to the reader that if the young man delayed to carry
them out it was because he found the labour of providing for his
companion by no means so severe as to require extraneous help. Isabel
had spoken to him very often about "specimens;" it was a word that
played a considerable part in her vocabulary; she had given him to
understand that she wished to see English society illustrated by eminent
cases.
"Well now, there's a specimen," he said to her as they walked up from
the riverside and he recognised Lord Warburton.
"A specimen of what?" asked the girl.
"A specimen of an English gentleman."
"Do you mean they're all like him?"
"Oh no; they're not all like him."
"He's a favourable specimen then," said Isabel; "because I'm sure he's
nice."
"Yes, he's very nice. And he's very fortunate."
The fortunate Lord Warburton exchanged a handshake with our heroine
and hoped she was very well. "But I needn't ask that," he said, "since
you've been handling the oars."
"I've been rowing a little," Isabel answered; "but how should you know
it?"
"Oh, I know he doesn't row; he's too lazy," said his lordship,
indicating Ralph Touchett with a laugh.
"He has a good excuse for his laziness," Isabel rejoined, lowering her
voice a little.
"Ah, he has a good excuse for everything!" cried Lord Warburton, still
with his sonorous mirth.
"My excuse for not rowing is that my cousin rows so well," said Ralph.
"She does everything well. She touches nothing that she doesn't adorn!"
"It makes one want to be touched, Miss Archer," Lord Warburton declared.
"Be touched in the right sense and you'll never look the worse for
it," said Isabel, who, if it pleased her to hear it said that her
accomplishments were numerous, was happily able to reflect that such
complacency was not the indication of a feeble mind, inasmuch as there
were several things in which she excelled. Her desire to think well of
herself had at least the element of humility that it always needed to be
supported by proof.
Lord Warburton not only spent the night at Gardencourt, but he was
persuaded to remain over the second day; and when the second day was
ended he determined to postpone his departure till the morrow. During
this period he addressed many of his remarks to Isabel, who accepted
this evidence of his esteem with a very good grace. She found herself
liking him extremely; the first impression he had made on her had had
weight, but at the end of an evening spent in his society she scarce
fell short of seeing him--though quite without luridity--as a hero
of romance. She retired to rest with a sense of good fortune, with a
quickened consciousness of possible felicities. "It's very nice to know
two such charming people as those," she said, meaning by "those" her
cousin and her cousin's friend. It must be added moreover that an
incident had occurred which might have seemed to put her good-humour to
the test. Mr. Touchett went to bed at half-past nine o'clock, but his
wife remained in the drawing-room with the other members of the party.
She prolonged her vigil for something less than an hour, and then,
rising, observed to Isabel that it was time they should bid the
gentlemen good-night. Isabel had as yet no desire to go to bed; the
occasion wore, to her sense, a festive character, and feasts were not
in the habit of terminating so early. So, without further thought, she
replied, very simply--
"Need I go, dear aunt? I'll come up in half an hour."
"It's impossible I should wait for you," Mrs. Touchett answered.
"Ah, you needn't wait! Ralph will light my candle," Isabel gaily
engaged.
"I'll light your candle; do let me light your candle, Miss Archer!" Lord
Warburton exclaimed. "Only I beg it shall not be before midnight."
Mrs. Touchett fixed her bright little eyes upon him a moment and
transferred them coldly to her niece. "You can't stay alone with the
gentlemen. You're not--you're not at your blest Albany, my dear."
Isabel rose, blushing. "I wish I were," she said.
"Oh, I say, mother!" Ralph broke out.
"My dear Mrs. Touchett!" Lord Warburton murmured.
"I didn't make your country, my lord," Mrs. Touchett said majestically.
"I must take it as I find it."
"Can't I stay with my own cousin?" Isabel enquired.
"I'm not aware that Lord Warburton is your cousin."
"Perhaps I had better go to bed!" the visitor suggested. "That will
arrange it."
Mrs. Touchett gave a little look of despair and sat down again. "Oh, if
it's necessary I'll stay up till midnight."
Ralph meanwhile handed Isabel her candlestick. He had been watching her;
it had seemed to him her temper was involved--an accident that might
be interesting. But if he had expected anything of a flare he was
disappointed, for the girl simply laughed a little, nodded good-night
and withdrew accompanied by her aunt. For himself he was annoyed at his
mother, though he thought she was right. Above-stairs the two ladies
separated at Mrs. Touchett's door. Isabel had said nothing on her way
up.
"Of course you're vexed at my interfering with you," said Mrs. Touchett.
Isabel considered. "I'm not vexed, but I'm surprised--and a good deal
mystified. Wasn't it proper I should remain in the drawing-room?"
"Not in the least. Young girls here--in decent houses--don't sit alone
with the gentlemen late at night."
"You were very right to tell me then," said Isabel. "I don't understand
it, but I'm very glad to know it.
"I shall always tell you," her aunt answered, "whenever I see you taking
what seems to me too much liberty."
"Pray do; but I don't say I shall always think your remonstrance just."
"Very likely not. You're too fond of your own ways."
"Yes, I think I'm very fond of them. But I always want to know the
things one shouldn't do."
"So as to do them?" asked her aunt.
"So as to choose," said Isabel.
| Isabel and the Touchetts take to often talking about British politics and the British public. The house itself receives very few visitors, and so all these discussions are really more theoretical than based off of Isabel's own observations. Isabel finds herself often disagreeing with Mrs. Touchett on the subject of the British constitution purely because she is more sentimental than Mrs. Touchett. Isabel claims to have an "American" view, and Mrs. Touchett tells her that is a shockingly narrow idea. My point of view, thank God, is personal. Mrs. Touchett declares. Meanwhile, Isabel develops a closer relationship to Ralph, who she accuses of never treating anything seriously. He jokingly likes to paint her as representative of America, and although she fears being seen as narrow-minded, she plays along, pretending to yearn for America. Isabel feels a bit sorry for Ralph sometimes, and she even accuses him of being a "humbug" who does not care for anything. Ralph jokes that he cares for nothing but her. The narrator comments that in fact this is not so far from the truth, as Ralph thinks about her often. Before her arrival, he had often many heavy thoughts about his ill father that burdened him. Ralph felt that life would be tasteless without his father, and he had always thought his father would outlive him. With Isabel's presence, he is less preoccupied with such dark thoughts. He decides that he is not in love with her, but that she is like the "finest work of art". The question though that constantly arises in his mind though is: "What was she going to do with herself. He decides that he wants to see for himself, whatever it may be. One day, Lord Warburton comes to visit at Gardencourt. Isabel finds that she likes him very much, and almost begins to think of him as a "hero of romance". One night, Mrs. Touchett, Ralph, Lord Warburton and Isabel are sitting in the drawing room after dinner. Mrs. Touchett stands up to go to bed and tells Isabel that she ought to bid the gentlemen good night. Isabel, without thinking, tells her aunt she would like to stay another half hour. Mrs. Touchett gives her a cold stare, reminding her that she is not in Albany. Isabel retorts, blushing, "I wish I were". Mrs. Touchett decides to simply stay up until Isabel wishes to go to bed. Afterwards, Mrs. Touchett tells her it was not proper to stay in the drawing room, and Isabel tells her she does not understand it, but is glad to know it. I always want to know the things one shouldn't do," Isabel says. The aunt asks, "So as to do them. Isabel responds, "So as to choose" | summary |
The two amused themselves, time and again, with talking of the attitude
of the British public as if the young lady had been in a position to
appeal to it; but in fact the British public remained for the present
profoundly indifferent to Miss Isabel Archer, whose fortune had dropped
her, as her cousin said, into the dullest house in England. Her gouty
uncle received very little company, and Mrs. Touchett, not having
cultivated relations with her husband's neighbours, was not warranted
in expecting visits from them. She had, however, a peculiar taste; she
liked to receive cards. For what is usually called social intercourse
she had very little relish; but nothing pleased her more than to find
her hall-table whitened with oblong morsels of symbolic pasteboard. She
flattered herself that she was a very just woman, and had mastered the
sovereign truth that nothing in this world is got for nothing. She had
played no social part as mistress of Gardencourt, and it was not to be
supposed that, in the surrounding country, a minute account should be
kept of her comings and goings. But it is by no means certain that she
did not feel it to be wrong that so little notice was taken of them and
that her failure (really very gratuitous) to make herself important in
the neighbourhood had not much to do with the acrimony of her allusions
to her husband's adopted country. Isabel presently found herself in the
singular situation of defending the British constitution against her
aunt; Mrs. Touchett having formed the habit of sticking pins into this
venerable instrument. Isabel always felt an impulse to pull out the
pins; not that she imagined they inflicted any damage on the tough old
parchment, but because it seemed to her her aunt might make better use
of her sharpness. She was very critical herself--it was incidental to
her age, her sex and her nationality; but she was very sentimental as
well, and there was something in Mrs. Touchett's dryness that set her
own moral fountains flowing.
"Now what's your point of view?" she asked of her aunt. "When you
criticise everything here you should have a point of view. Yours doesn't
seem to be American--you thought everything over there so disagreeable.
When I criticise I have mine; it's thoroughly American!"
"My dear young lady," said Mrs. Touchett, "there are as many points of
view in the world as there are people of sense to take them. You may
say that doesn't make them very numerous! American? Never in the world;
that's shockingly narrow. My point of view, thank God, is personal!"
Isabel thought this a better answer than she admitted; it was a
tolerable description of her own manner of judging, but it would not
have sounded well for her to say so. On the lips of a person less
advanced in life and less enlightened by experience than Mrs. Touchett
such a declaration would savour of immodesty, even of arrogance. She
risked it nevertheless in talking with Ralph, with whom she talked a
great deal and with whom her conversation was of a sort that gave a
large licence to extravagance. Her cousin used, as the phrase is, to
chaff her; he very soon established with her a reputation for treating
everything as a joke, and he was not a man to neglect the privileges
such a reputation conferred. She accused him of an odious want of
seriousness, of laughing at all things, beginning with himself. Such
slender faculty of reverence as he possessed centred wholly upon his
father; for the rest, he exercised his wit indifferently upon his
father's son, this gentleman's weak lungs, his useless life, his
fantastic mother, his friends (Lord Warburton in especial), his adopted,
and his native country, his charming new-found cousin. "I keep a band
of music in my ante-room," he said once to her. "It has orders to play
without stopping; it renders me two excellent services. It keeps the
sounds of the world from reaching the private apartments, and it makes
the world think that dancing's going on within." It was dance-music
indeed that you usually heard when you came within ear-shot of Ralph's
band; the liveliest waltzes seemed to float upon the air. Isabel often
found herself irritated by this perpetual fiddling; she would have liked
to pass through the ante-room, as her cousin called it, and enter the
private apartments. It mattered little that he had assured her they were
a very dismal place; she would have been glad to undertake to sweep them
and set them in order. It was but half-hospitality to let her remain
outside; to punish him for which Isabel administered innumerable taps
with the ferule of her straight young wit. It must be said that her wit
was exercised to a large extent in self-defence, for her cousin amused
himself with calling her "Columbia" and accusing her of a patriotism so
heated that it scorched. He drew a caricature of her in which she was
represented as a very pretty young woman dressed, on the lines of the
prevailing fashion, in the folds of the national banner. Isabel's chief
dread in life at this period of her development was that she should
appear narrow-minded; what she feared next afterwards was that she
should really be so. But she nevertheless made no scruple of abounding
in her cousin's sense and pretending to sigh for the charms of her
native land. She would be as American as it pleased him to regard her,
and if he chose to laugh at her she would give him plenty of occupation.
She defended England against his mother, but when Ralph sang its praises
on purpose, as she said, to work her up, she found herself able to
differ from him on a variety of points. In fact, the quality of this
small ripe country seemed as sweet to her as the taste of an October
pear; and her satisfaction was at the root of the good spirits which
enabled her to take her cousin's chaff and return it in kind. If her
good-humour flagged at moments it was not because she thought herself
ill-used, but because she suddenly felt sorry for Ralph. It seemed to
her he was talking as a blind and had little heart in what he said. "I
don't know what's the matter with you," she observed to him once; "but I
suspect you're a great humbug."
"That's your privilege," Ralph answered, who had not been used to being
so crudely addressed.
"I don't know what you care for; I don't think you care for anything.
You don't really care for England when you praise it; you don't care for
America even when you pretend to abuse it."
"I care for nothing but you, dear cousin," said Ralph.
"If I could believe even that, I should be very glad."
"Ah well, I should hope so!" the young man exclaimed.
Isabel might have believed it and not have been far from the truth. He
thought a great deal about her; she was constantly present to his mind.
At a time when his thoughts had been a good deal of a burden to him her
sudden arrival, which promised nothing and was an open-handed gift of
fate, had refreshed and quickened them, given them wings and something
to fly for. Poor Ralph had been for many weeks steeped in melancholy;
his outlook, habitually sombre, lay under the shadow of a deeper cloud.
He had grown anxious about his father, whose gout, hitherto confined to
his legs, had begun to ascend into regions more vital. The old man had
been gravely ill in the spring, and the doctors had whispered to
Ralph that another attack would be less easy to deal with. Just now
he appeared disburdened of pain, but Ralph could not rid himself of a
suspicion that this was a subterfuge of the enemy, who was waiting to
take him off his guard. If the manoeuvre should succeed there would be
little hope of any great resistance. Ralph had always taken for granted
that his father would survive him--that his own name would be the first
grimly called. The father and son had been close companions, and the
idea of being left alone with the remnant of a tasteless life on his
hands was not gratifying to the young man, who had always and tacitly
counted upon his elder's help in making the best of a poor business.
At the prospect of losing his great motive Ralph lost indeed his one
inspiration. If they might die at the same time it would be all very
well; but without the encouragement of his father's society he should
barely have patience to await his own turn. He had not the incentive of
feeling that he was indispensable to his mother; it was a rule with his
mother to have no regrets. He bethought himself of course that it had
been a small kindness to his father to wish that, of the two, the active
rather than the passive party should know the felt wound; he remembered
that the old man had always treated his own forecast of an early end as
a clever fallacy, which he should be delighted to discredit so far as
he might by dying first. But of the two triumphs, that of refuting a
sophistical son and that of holding on a while longer to a state of
being which, with all abatements, he enjoyed, Ralph deemed it no sin to
hope the latter might be vouchsafed to Mr. Touchett.
These were nice questions, but Isabel's arrival put a stop to his
puzzling over them. It even suggested there might be a compensation for
the intolerable ennui of surviving his genial sire. He wondered whether
he were harbouring "love" for this spontaneous young woman from Albany;
but he judged that on the whole he was not. After he had known her for
a week he quite made up his mind to this, and every day he felt a little
more sure. Lord Warburton had been right about her; she was a really
interesting little figure. Ralph wondered how their neighbour had
found it out so soon; and then he said it was only another proof of his
friend's high abilities, which he had always greatly admired. If his
cousin were to be nothing more than an entertainment to him, Ralph was
conscious she was an entertainment of a high order. "A character like
that," he said to himself--"a real little passionate force to see at
play is the finest thing in nature. It's finer than the finest work
of art--than a Greek bas-relief, than a great Titian, than a Gothic
cathedral. It's very pleasant to be so well treated where one had least
looked for it. I had never been more blue, more bored, than for a week
before she came; I had never expected less that anything pleasant would
happen. Suddenly I receive a Titian, by the post, to hang on my wall--a
Greek bas-relief to stick over my chimney-piece. The key of a beautiful
edifice is thrust into my hand, and I'm told to walk in and admire. My
poor boy, you've been sadly ungrateful, and now you had better keep very
quiet and never grumble again." The sentiment of these reflexions was
very just; but it was not exactly true that Ralph Touchett had had a key
put into his hand. His cousin was a very brilliant girl, who would take,
as he said, a good deal of knowing; but she needed the knowing, and his
attitude with regard to her, though it was contemplative and critical,
was not judicial. He surveyed the edifice from the outside and admired
it greatly; he looked in at the windows and received an impression of
proportions equally fair. But he felt that he saw it only by glimpses
and that he had not yet stood under the roof. The door was fastened, and
though he had keys in his pocket he had a conviction that none of them
would fit. She was intelligent and generous; it was a fine free nature;
but what was she going to do with herself? This question was irregular,
for with most women one had no occasion to ask it. Most women did
with themselves nothing at all; they waited, in attitudes more or less
gracefully passive, for a man to come that way and furnish them with
a destiny. Isabel's originality was that she gave one an impression of
having intentions of her own. "Whenever she executes them," said Ralph,
"may I be there to see!"
It devolved upon him of course to do the honours of the place. Mr.
Touchett was confined to his chair, and his wife's position was that of
rather a grim visitor; so that in the line of conduct that opened itself
to Ralph duty and inclination were harmoniously mixed. He was not a
great walker, but he strolled about the grounds with his cousin--a
pastime for which the weather remained favourable with a persistency not
allowed for in Isabel's somewhat lugubrious prevision of the climate;
and in the long afternoons, of which the length was but the measure of
her gratified eagerness, they took a boat on the river, the dear little
river, as Isabel called it, where the opposite shore seemed still a
part of the foreground of the landscape; or drove over the country in a
phaeton--a low, capacious, thick-wheeled phaeton formerly much used by
Mr. Touchett, but which he had now ceased to enjoy. Isabel enjoyed it
largely and, handling the reins in a manner which approved itself to
the groom as "knowing," was never weary of driving her uncle's capital
horses through winding lanes and byways full of the rural incidents she
had confidently expected to find; past cottages thatched and timbered,
past ale-houses latticed and sanded, past patches of ancient common and
glimpses of empty parks, between hedgerows made thick by midsummer. When
they reached home they usually found tea had been served on the lawn
and that Mrs. Touchett had not shrunk from the extremity of handing her
husband his cup. But the two for the most part sat silent; the old
man with his head back and his eyes closed, his wife occupied with her
knitting and wearing that appearance of rare profundity with which some
ladies consider the movement of their needles.
One day, however, a visitor had arrived. The two young persons, after
spending an hour on the river, strolled back to the house and perceived
Lord Warburton sitting under the trees and engaged in conversation, of
which even at a distance the desultory character was appreciable, with
Mrs. Touchett. He had driven over from his own place with a portmanteau
and had asked, as the father and son often invited him to do, for a
dinner and a lodging. Isabel, seeing him for half an hour on the day of
her arrival, had discovered in this brief space that she liked him; he
had indeed rather sharply registered himself on her fine sense and
she had thought of him several times. She had hoped she should see him
again--hoped too that she should see a few others. Gardencourt was not
dull; the place itself was sovereign, her uncle was more and more a
sort of golden grandfather, and Ralph was unlike any cousin she had
ever encountered--her idea of cousins having tended to gloom. Then her
impressions were still so fresh and so quickly renewed that there was as
yet hardly a hint of vacancy in the view. But Isabel had need to remind
herself that she was interested in human nature and that her foremost
hope in coming abroad had been that she should see a great many people.
When Ralph said to her, as he had done several times, "I wonder you find
this endurable; you ought to see some of the neighbours and some of
our friends, because we have really got a few, though you would never
suppose it"--when he offered to invite what he called a "lot of people"
and make her acquainted with English society, she encouraged the
hospitable impulse and promised in advance to hurl herself into the
fray. Little, however, for the present, had come of his offers, and it
may be confided to the reader that if the young man delayed to carry
them out it was because he found the labour of providing for his
companion by no means so severe as to require extraneous help. Isabel
had spoken to him very often about "specimens;" it was a word that
played a considerable part in her vocabulary; she had given him to
understand that she wished to see English society illustrated by eminent
cases.
"Well now, there's a specimen," he said to her as they walked up from
the riverside and he recognised Lord Warburton.
"A specimen of what?" asked the girl.
"A specimen of an English gentleman."
"Do you mean they're all like him?"
"Oh no; they're not all like him."
"He's a favourable specimen then," said Isabel; "because I'm sure he's
nice."
"Yes, he's very nice. And he's very fortunate."
The fortunate Lord Warburton exchanged a handshake with our heroine
and hoped she was very well. "But I needn't ask that," he said, "since
you've been handling the oars."
"I've been rowing a little," Isabel answered; "but how should you know
it?"
"Oh, I know he doesn't row; he's too lazy," said his lordship,
indicating Ralph Touchett with a laugh.
"He has a good excuse for his laziness," Isabel rejoined, lowering her
voice a little.
"Ah, he has a good excuse for everything!" cried Lord Warburton, still
with his sonorous mirth.
"My excuse for not rowing is that my cousin rows so well," said Ralph.
"She does everything well. She touches nothing that she doesn't adorn!"
"It makes one want to be touched, Miss Archer," Lord Warburton declared.
"Be touched in the right sense and you'll never look the worse for
it," said Isabel, who, if it pleased her to hear it said that her
accomplishments were numerous, was happily able to reflect that such
complacency was not the indication of a feeble mind, inasmuch as there
were several things in which she excelled. Her desire to think well of
herself had at least the element of humility that it always needed to be
supported by proof.
Lord Warburton not only spent the night at Gardencourt, but he was
persuaded to remain over the second day; and when the second day was
ended he determined to postpone his departure till the morrow. During
this period he addressed many of his remarks to Isabel, who accepted
this evidence of his esteem with a very good grace. She found herself
liking him extremely; the first impression he had made on her had had
weight, but at the end of an evening spent in his society she scarce
fell short of seeing him--though quite without luridity--as a hero
of romance. She retired to rest with a sense of good fortune, with a
quickened consciousness of possible felicities. "It's very nice to know
two such charming people as those," she said, meaning by "those" her
cousin and her cousin's friend. It must be added moreover that an
incident had occurred which might have seemed to put her good-humour to
the test. Mr. Touchett went to bed at half-past nine o'clock, but his
wife remained in the drawing-room with the other members of the party.
She prolonged her vigil for something less than an hour, and then,
rising, observed to Isabel that it was time they should bid the
gentlemen good-night. Isabel had as yet no desire to go to bed; the
occasion wore, to her sense, a festive character, and feasts were not
in the habit of terminating so early. So, without further thought, she
replied, very simply--
"Need I go, dear aunt? I'll come up in half an hour."
"It's impossible I should wait for you," Mrs. Touchett answered.
"Ah, you needn't wait! Ralph will light my candle," Isabel gaily
engaged.
"I'll light your candle; do let me light your candle, Miss Archer!" Lord
Warburton exclaimed. "Only I beg it shall not be before midnight."
Mrs. Touchett fixed her bright little eyes upon him a moment and
transferred them coldly to her niece. "You can't stay alone with the
gentlemen. You're not--you're not at your blest Albany, my dear."
Isabel rose, blushing. "I wish I were," she said.
"Oh, I say, mother!" Ralph broke out.
"My dear Mrs. Touchett!" Lord Warburton murmured.
"I didn't make your country, my lord," Mrs. Touchett said majestically.
"I must take it as I find it."
"Can't I stay with my own cousin?" Isabel enquired.
"I'm not aware that Lord Warburton is your cousin."
"Perhaps I had better go to bed!" the visitor suggested. "That will
arrange it."
Mrs. Touchett gave a little look of despair and sat down again. "Oh, if
it's necessary I'll stay up till midnight."
Ralph meanwhile handed Isabel her candlestick. He had been watching her;
it had seemed to him her temper was involved--an accident that might
be interesting. But if he had expected anything of a flare he was
disappointed, for the girl simply laughed a little, nodded good-night
and withdrew accompanied by her aunt. For himself he was annoyed at his
mother, though he thought she was right. Above-stairs the two ladies
separated at Mrs. Touchett's door. Isabel had said nothing on her way
up.
"Of course you're vexed at my interfering with you," said Mrs. Touchett.
Isabel considered. "I'm not vexed, but I'm surprised--and a good deal
mystified. Wasn't it proper I should remain in the drawing-room?"
"Not in the least. Young girls here--in decent houses--don't sit alone
with the gentlemen late at night."
"You were very right to tell me then," said Isabel. "I don't understand
it, but I'm very glad to know it.
"I shall always tell you," her aunt answered, "whenever I see you taking
what seems to me too much liberty."
"Pray do; but I don't say I shall always think your remonstrance just."
"Very likely not. You're too fond of your own ways."
"Yes, I think I'm very fond of them. But I always want to know the
things one shouldn't do."
"So as to do them?" asked her aunt.
"So as to choose," said Isabel.
| Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a "fine work of art." It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called "the portrait of a lady," which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the "deepest" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more "formidable" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence? | analysis |
As she was devoted to romantic effects Lord Warburton ventured to
express a hope that she would come some day and see his house, a very
curious old place. He extracted from Mrs. Touchett a promise that she
would bring her niece to Lockleigh, and Ralph signified his willingness
to attend the ladies if his father should be able to spare him. Lord
Warburton assured our heroine that in the mean time his sisters would
come and see her. She knew something about his sisters, having sounded
him, during the hours they spent together while he was at Gardencourt,
on many points connected with his family. When Isabel was interested she
asked a great many questions, and as her companion was a copious talker
she urged him on this occasion by no means in vain. He told her he
had four sisters and two brothers and had lost both his parents. The
brothers and sisters were very good people--"not particularly clever,
you know," he said, "but very decent and pleasant;" and he was so good
as to hope Miss Archer might know them well. One of the brothers was in
the Church, settled in the family living, that of Lockleigh, which was
a heavy, sprawling parish, and was an excellent fellow in spite of his
thinking differently from himself on every conceivable topic. And then
Lord Warburton mentioned some of the opinions held by his brother, which
were opinions Isabel had often heard expressed and that she supposed to
be entertained by a considerable portion of the human family. Many of
them indeed she supposed she had held herself, till he assured her
she was quite mistaken, that it was really impossible, that she had
doubtless imagined she entertained them, but that she might depend that,
if she thought them over a little, she would find there was nothing
in them. When she answered that she had already thought several of the
questions involved over very attentively he declared that she was only
another example of what he had often been struck with--the fact that,
of all the people in the world, the Americans were the most grossly
superstitious. They were rank Tories and bigots, every one of them;
there were no conservatives like American conservatives. Her uncle and
her cousin were there to prove it; nothing could be more medieval than
many of their views; they had ideas that people in England nowadays were
ashamed to confess to; and they had the impudence moreover, said his
lordship, laughing, to pretend they knew more about the needs and
dangers of this poor dear stupid old England than he who was born in it
and owned a considerable slice of it--the more shame to him! From all of
which Isabel gathered that Lord Warburton was a nobleman of the newest
pattern, a reformer, a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His other
brother, who was in the army in India, was rather wild and pig-headed
and had not been of much use as yet but to make debts for Warburton to
pay--one of the most precious privileges of an elder brother. "I don't
think I shall pay any more," said her friend; "he lives a monstrous deal
better than I do, enjoys unheard-of luxuries and thinks himself a much
finer gentleman than I. As I'm a consistent radical I go in only for
equality; I don't go in for the superiority of the younger brothers."
Two of his four sisters, the second and fourth, were married, one of
them having done very well, as they said, the other only so-so.
The husband of the elder, Lord Haycock, was a very good fellow, but
unfortunately a horrid Tory; and his wife, like all good English wives,
was worse than her husband. The other had espoused a smallish squire
in Norfolk and, though married but the other day, had already five
children. This information and much more Lord Warburton imparted to his
young American listener, taking pains to make many things clear and to
lay bare to her apprehension the peculiarities of English life. Isabel
was often amused at his explicitness and at the small allowance he
seemed to make either for her own experience or for her imagination. "He
thinks I'm a barbarian," she said, "and that I've never seen forks and
spoons;" and she used to ask him artless questions for the pleasure of
hearing him answer seriously. Then when he had fallen into the trap,
"It's a pity you can't see me in my war-paint and feathers," she
remarked; "if I had known how kind you are to the poor savages I would
have brought over my native costume!" Lord Warburton had travelled
through the United States and knew much more about them than Isabel; he
was so good as to say that America was the most charming country in the
world, but his recollections of it appeared to encourage the idea that
Americans in England would need to have a great many things explained
to them. "If I had only had you to explain things to me in America!"
he said. "I was rather puzzled in your country; in fact I was quite
bewildered, and the trouble was that the explanations only puzzled me
more. You know I think they often gave me the wrong ones on purpose;
they're rather clever about that over there. But when I explain you
can trust me; about what I tell you there's no mistake." There was no
mistake at least about his being very intelligent and cultivated and
knowing almost everything in the world. Although he gave the most
interesting and thrilling glimpses Isabel felt he never did it to
exhibit himself, and though he had had rare chances and had tumbled in,
as she put it, for high prizes, he was as far as possible from making
a merit of it. He had enjoyed the best things of life, but they had not
spoiled his sense of proportion. His quality was a mixture of the effect
of rich experience--oh, so easily come by!--with a modesty at times
almost boyish; the sweet and wholesome savour of which--it was as
agreeable as something tasted--lost nothing from the addition of a tone
of responsible kindness.
"I like your specimen English gentleman very much," Isabel said to Ralph
after Lord Warburton had gone.
"I like him too--I love him well," Ralph returned. "But I pity him
more."
Isabel looked at him askance. "Why, that seems to me his only
fault--that one can't pity him a little. He appears to have everything,
to know everything, to be everything."
"Oh, he's in a bad way!" Ralph insisted.
"I suppose you don't mean in health?"
"No, as to that he's detestably sound. What I mean is that he's a man
with a great position who's playing all sorts of tricks with it. He
doesn't take himself seriously."
"Does he regard himself as a joke?"
"Much worse; he regards himself as an imposition--as an abuse."
"Well, perhaps he is," said Isabel.
"Perhaps he is--though on the whole I don't think so. But in that case
what's more pitiable than a sentient, self-conscious abuse planted by
other hands, deeply rooted but aching with a sense of its injustice?
For me, in his place, I could be as solemn as a statue of Buddha.
He occupies a position that appeals to my imagination. Great
responsibilities, great opportunities, great consideration, great
wealth, great power, a natural share in the public affairs of a great
country. But he's all in a muddle about himself, his position, his
power, and indeed about everything in the world. He's the victim of a
critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn't know
what to believe in. When I attempt to tell him (because if I were he I
know very well what I should believe in) he calls me a pampered bigot.
I believe he seriously thinks me an awful Philistine; he says I don't
understand my time. I understand it certainly better than he, who
can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an
institution."
"He doesn't look very wretched," Isabel observed.
"Possibly not; though, being a man of a good deal of charming taste, I
think he often has uncomfortable hours. But what is it to say of a being
of his opportunities that he's not miserable? Besides, I believe he is."
"I don't," said Isabel.
"Well," her cousin rejoined, "if he isn't he ought to be!"
In the afternoon she spent an hour with her uncle on the lawn, where the
old man sat, as usual, with his shawl over his legs and his large cup
of diluted tea in his hands. In the course of conversation he asked her
what she thought of their late visitor.
Isabel was prompt. "I think he's charming."
"He's a nice person," said Mr. Touchett, "but I don't recommend you to
fall in love with him."
"I shall not do it then; I shall never fall in love but on your
recommendation. Moreover," Isabel added, "my cousin gives me rather a
sad account of Lord Warburton."
"Oh, indeed? I don't know what there may be to say, but you must
remember that Ralph must talk."
"He thinks your friend's too subversive--or not subversive enough! I
don't quite understand which," said Isabel.
The old man shook his head slowly, smiled and put down his cup. "I don't
know which either. He goes very far, but it's quite possible he doesn't
go far enough. He seems to want to do away with a good many things, but
he seems to want to remain himself. I suppose that's natural, but it's
rather inconsistent."
"Oh, I hope he'll remain himself," said Isabel. "If he were to be done
away with his friends would miss him sadly."
"Well," said the old man, "I guess he'll stay and amuse his friends.
I should certainly miss him very much here at Gardencourt. He always
amuses me when he comes over, and I think he amuses himself as well.
There's a considerable number like him, round in society; they're very
fashionable just now. I don't know what they're trying to do--whether
they're trying to get up a revolution. I hope at any rate they'll put it
off till after I'm gone. You see they want to disestablish everything;
but I'm a pretty big landowner here, and I don't want to be
disestablished. I wouldn't have come over if I had thought they
were going to behave like that," Mr. Touchett went on with expanding
hilarity. "I came over because I thought England was a safe country. I
call it a regular fraud if they are going to introduce any considerable
changes; there'll be a large number disappointed in that case."
"Oh, I do hope they'll make a revolution!" Isabel exclaimed. "I should
delight in seeing a revolution."
"Let me see," said her uncle, with a humorous intention; "I forget
whether you're on the side of the old or on the side of the new. I've
heard you take such opposite views."
"I'm on the side of both. I guess I'm a little on the side of
everything. In a revolution--after it was well begun--I think I should
be a high, proud loyalist. One sympathises more with them, and they've a
chance to behave so exquisitely. I mean so picturesquely."
"I don't know that I understand what you mean by behaving picturesquely,
but it seems to me that you do that always, my dear."
"Oh, you lovely man, if I could believe that!" the girl interrupted.
"I'm afraid, after all, you won't have the pleasure of going gracefully
to the guillotine here just now," Mr. Touchett went on. "If you want to
see a big outbreak you must pay us a long visit. You see, when you come
to the point it wouldn't suit them to be taken at their word."
"Of whom are you speaking?"
"Well, I mean Lord Warburton and his friends--the radicals of the upper
class. Of course I only know the way it strikes me. They talk about the
changes, but I don't think they quite realise. You and I, you know, we
know what it is to have lived under democratic institutions: I always
thought them very comfortable, but I was used to them from the first.
And then I ain't a lord; you're a lady, my dear, but I ain't a lord. Now
over here I don't think it quite comes home to them. It's a matter of
every day and every hour, and I don't think many of them would find it
as pleasant as what they've got. Of course if they want to try, it's
their own business; but I expect they won't try very hard."
"Don't you think they're sincere?" Isabel asked.
"Well, they want to FEEL earnest," Mr. Touchett allowed; "but it seems
as if they took it out in theories mostly. Their radical views are a
kind of amusement; they've got to have some amusement, and they might
have coarser tastes than that. You see they're very luxurious, and these
progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury. They make them feel
moral and yet don't damage their position. They think a great deal of
their position; don't let one of them ever persuade you he doesn't, for
if you were to proceed on that basis you'd be pulled up very short."
Isabel followed her uncle's argument, which he unfolded with his quaint
distinctness, most attentively, and though she was unacquainted with the
British aristocracy she found it in harmony with her general impressions
of human nature. But she felt moved to put in a protest on Lord
Warburton's behalf. "I don't believe Lord Warburton's a humbug; I don't
care what the others are. I should like to see Lord Warburton put to the
test."
"Heaven deliver me from my friends!" Mr. Touchett answered. "Lord
Warburton's a very amiable young man--a very fine young man. He has a
hundred thousand a year. He owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of
this little island and ever so many other things besides. He has half a
dozen houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I have one at my
own dinner-table. He has elegant tastes--cares for literature, for art,
for science, for charming young ladies. The most elegant is his taste
for the new views. It affords him a great deal of pleasure--more
perhaps than anything else, except the young ladies. His old house over
there--what does he call it, Lockleigh?--is very attractive; but I don't
think it's as pleasant as this. That doesn't matter, however--he has
so many others. His views don't hurt any one as far as I can see; they
certainly don't hurt himself. And if there were to be a revolution he
would come off very easily. They wouldn't touch him, they'd leave him as
he is: he's too much liked."
"Ah, he couldn't be a martyr even if he wished!" Isabel sighed. "That's
a very poor position."
"He'll never be a martyr unless you make him one," said the old man.
Isabel shook her head; there might have been something laughable in the
fact that she did it with a touch of melancholy. "I shall never make any
one a martyr."
"You'll never be one, I hope."
"I hope not. But you don't pity Lord Warburton then as Ralph does?"
Her uncle looked at her a while with genial acuteness. "Yes, I do, after
all!"
| Lord Warburton gets Mrs. Touchett to promise to bring Isabel to his own manor, Lockleigh. Isabel learns about Lord Warburton's family life: he has two brothers and four sisters. Isabel notes that Warburton acts as if she is an American "barbarian" , and he makes little allowance for her imagination or for her experience. Warburton admits to being confused in America, and believes that Americans need as much explanation in England as he had needed in America. Isabel likes Lord Warburton because he appears to have enjoyed the best things of life, but he also is not spoiled for it. He has a boyishness and kindness about him. Isabel confides in Ralph that she likes Warburton, and Ralph responds that he pities him. So he informs Isabel: "He's a man with a great position who's playing all sorts of tricks with it. He doesn't take himself seriously. He's the victim of a critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn't know where to believe in. He can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an institution". Isabel tells Mr. Touchett, Ralph's father, that she does not understand Ralph's opinion of Lord Warburton. Mr. Touchett responds that Lord Warburton seems to want to "do away with many things," but also to remain himself. He notes that there are a great many people like Lord Warburton, and he is not sure if they are trying to start a revolution. Isabel is ecstatic at the thought that there might be a revolution, declaring that she would be on the side of the loyalists if there were such a revolution. Mr. Touchett notes that the desire for change among men such as Lord Warburton, and other radicals, is probably more theoretical than earnest. These progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury," he says | summary |
As she was devoted to romantic effects Lord Warburton ventured to
express a hope that she would come some day and see his house, a very
curious old place. He extracted from Mrs. Touchett a promise that she
would bring her niece to Lockleigh, and Ralph signified his willingness
to attend the ladies if his father should be able to spare him. Lord
Warburton assured our heroine that in the mean time his sisters would
come and see her. She knew something about his sisters, having sounded
him, during the hours they spent together while he was at Gardencourt,
on many points connected with his family. When Isabel was interested she
asked a great many questions, and as her companion was a copious talker
she urged him on this occasion by no means in vain. He told her he
had four sisters and two brothers and had lost both his parents. The
brothers and sisters were very good people--"not particularly clever,
you know," he said, "but very decent and pleasant;" and he was so good
as to hope Miss Archer might know them well. One of the brothers was in
the Church, settled in the family living, that of Lockleigh, which was
a heavy, sprawling parish, and was an excellent fellow in spite of his
thinking differently from himself on every conceivable topic. And then
Lord Warburton mentioned some of the opinions held by his brother, which
were opinions Isabel had often heard expressed and that she supposed to
be entertained by a considerable portion of the human family. Many of
them indeed she supposed she had held herself, till he assured her
she was quite mistaken, that it was really impossible, that she had
doubtless imagined she entertained them, but that she might depend that,
if she thought them over a little, she would find there was nothing
in them. When she answered that she had already thought several of the
questions involved over very attentively he declared that she was only
another example of what he had often been struck with--the fact that,
of all the people in the world, the Americans were the most grossly
superstitious. They were rank Tories and bigots, every one of them;
there were no conservatives like American conservatives. Her uncle and
her cousin were there to prove it; nothing could be more medieval than
many of their views; they had ideas that people in England nowadays were
ashamed to confess to; and they had the impudence moreover, said his
lordship, laughing, to pretend they knew more about the needs and
dangers of this poor dear stupid old England than he who was born in it
and owned a considerable slice of it--the more shame to him! From all of
which Isabel gathered that Lord Warburton was a nobleman of the newest
pattern, a reformer, a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His other
brother, who was in the army in India, was rather wild and pig-headed
and had not been of much use as yet but to make debts for Warburton to
pay--one of the most precious privileges of an elder brother. "I don't
think I shall pay any more," said her friend; "he lives a monstrous deal
better than I do, enjoys unheard-of luxuries and thinks himself a much
finer gentleman than I. As I'm a consistent radical I go in only for
equality; I don't go in for the superiority of the younger brothers."
Two of his four sisters, the second and fourth, were married, one of
them having done very well, as they said, the other only so-so.
The husband of the elder, Lord Haycock, was a very good fellow, but
unfortunately a horrid Tory; and his wife, like all good English wives,
was worse than her husband. The other had espoused a smallish squire
in Norfolk and, though married but the other day, had already five
children. This information and much more Lord Warburton imparted to his
young American listener, taking pains to make many things clear and to
lay bare to her apprehension the peculiarities of English life. Isabel
was often amused at his explicitness and at the small allowance he
seemed to make either for her own experience or for her imagination. "He
thinks I'm a barbarian," she said, "and that I've never seen forks and
spoons;" and she used to ask him artless questions for the pleasure of
hearing him answer seriously. Then when he had fallen into the trap,
"It's a pity you can't see me in my war-paint and feathers," she
remarked; "if I had known how kind you are to the poor savages I would
have brought over my native costume!" Lord Warburton had travelled
through the United States and knew much more about them than Isabel; he
was so good as to say that America was the most charming country in the
world, but his recollections of it appeared to encourage the idea that
Americans in England would need to have a great many things explained
to them. "If I had only had you to explain things to me in America!"
he said. "I was rather puzzled in your country; in fact I was quite
bewildered, and the trouble was that the explanations only puzzled me
more. You know I think they often gave me the wrong ones on purpose;
they're rather clever about that over there. But when I explain you
can trust me; about what I tell you there's no mistake." There was no
mistake at least about his being very intelligent and cultivated and
knowing almost everything in the world. Although he gave the most
interesting and thrilling glimpses Isabel felt he never did it to
exhibit himself, and though he had had rare chances and had tumbled in,
as she put it, for high prizes, he was as far as possible from making
a merit of it. He had enjoyed the best things of life, but they had not
spoiled his sense of proportion. His quality was a mixture of the effect
of rich experience--oh, so easily come by!--with a modesty at times
almost boyish; the sweet and wholesome savour of which--it was as
agreeable as something tasted--lost nothing from the addition of a tone
of responsible kindness.
"I like your specimen English gentleman very much," Isabel said to Ralph
after Lord Warburton had gone.
"I like him too--I love him well," Ralph returned. "But I pity him
more."
Isabel looked at him askance. "Why, that seems to me his only
fault--that one can't pity him a little. He appears to have everything,
to know everything, to be everything."
"Oh, he's in a bad way!" Ralph insisted.
"I suppose you don't mean in health?"
"No, as to that he's detestably sound. What I mean is that he's a man
with a great position who's playing all sorts of tricks with it. He
doesn't take himself seriously."
"Does he regard himself as a joke?"
"Much worse; he regards himself as an imposition--as an abuse."
"Well, perhaps he is," said Isabel.
"Perhaps he is--though on the whole I don't think so. But in that case
what's more pitiable than a sentient, self-conscious abuse planted by
other hands, deeply rooted but aching with a sense of its injustice?
For me, in his place, I could be as solemn as a statue of Buddha.
He occupies a position that appeals to my imagination. Great
responsibilities, great opportunities, great consideration, great
wealth, great power, a natural share in the public affairs of a great
country. But he's all in a muddle about himself, his position, his
power, and indeed about everything in the world. He's the victim of a
critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn't know
what to believe in. When I attempt to tell him (because if I were he I
know very well what I should believe in) he calls me a pampered bigot.
I believe he seriously thinks me an awful Philistine; he says I don't
understand my time. I understand it certainly better than he, who
can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an
institution."
"He doesn't look very wretched," Isabel observed.
"Possibly not; though, being a man of a good deal of charming taste, I
think he often has uncomfortable hours. But what is it to say of a being
of his opportunities that he's not miserable? Besides, I believe he is."
"I don't," said Isabel.
"Well," her cousin rejoined, "if he isn't he ought to be!"
In the afternoon she spent an hour with her uncle on the lawn, where the
old man sat, as usual, with his shawl over his legs and his large cup
of diluted tea in his hands. In the course of conversation he asked her
what she thought of their late visitor.
Isabel was prompt. "I think he's charming."
"He's a nice person," said Mr. Touchett, "but I don't recommend you to
fall in love with him."
"I shall not do it then; I shall never fall in love but on your
recommendation. Moreover," Isabel added, "my cousin gives me rather a
sad account of Lord Warburton."
"Oh, indeed? I don't know what there may be to say, but you must
remember that Ralph must talk."
"He thinks your friend's too subversive--or not subversive enough! I
don't quite understand which," said Isabel.
The old man shook his head slowly, smiled and put down his cup. "I don't
know which either. He goes very far, but it's quite possible he doesn't
go far enough. He seems to want to do away with a good many things, but
he seems to want to remain himself. I suppose that's natural, but it's
rather inconsistent."
"Oh, I hope he'll remain himself," said Isabel. "If he were to be done
away with his friends would miss him sadly."
"Well," said the old man, "I guess he'll stay and amuse his friends.
I should certainly miss him very much here at Gardencourt. He always
amuses me when he comes over, and I think he amuses himself as well.
There's a considerable number like him, round in society; they're very
fashionable just now. I don't know what they're trying to do--whether
they're trying to get up a revolution. I hope at any rate they'll put it
off till after I'm gone. You see they want to disestablish everything;
but I'm a pretty big landowner here, and I don't want to be
disestablished. I wouldn't have come over if I had thought they
were going to behave like that," Mr. Touchett went on with expanding
hilarity. "I came over because I thought England was a safe country. I
call it a regular fraud if they are going to introduce any considerable
changes; there'll be a large number disappointed in that case."
"Oh, I do hope they'll make a revolution!" Isabel exclaimed. "I should
delight in seeing a revolution."
"Let me see," said her uncle, with a humorous intention; "I forget
whether you're on the side of the old or on the side of the new. I've
heard you take such opposite views."
"I'm on the side of both. I guess I'm a little on the side of
everything. In a revolution--after it was well begun--I think I should
be a high, proud loyalist. One sympathises more with them, and they've a
chance to behave so exquisitely. I mean so picturesquely."
"I don't know that I understand what you mean by behaving picturesquely,
but it seems to me that you do that always, my dear."
"Oh, you lovely man, if I could believe that!" the girl interrupted.
"I'm afraid, after all, you won't have the pleasure of going gracefully
to the guillotine here just now," Mr. Touchett went on. "If you want to
see a big outbreak you must pay us a long visit. You see, when you come
to the point it wouldn't suit them to be taken at their word."
"Of whom are you speaking?"
"Well, I mean Lord Warburton and his friends--the radicals of the upper
class. Of course I only know the way it strikes me. They talk about the
changes, but I don't think they quite realise. You and I, you know, we
know what it is to have lived under democratic institutions: I always
thought them very comfortable, but I was used to them from the first.
And then I ain't a lord; you're a lady, my dear, but I ain't a lord. Now
over here I don't think it quite comes home to them. It's a matter of
every day and every hour, and I don't think many of them would find it
as pleasant as what they've got. Of course if they want to try, it's
their own business; but I expect they won't try very hard."
"Don't you think they're sincere?" Isabel asked.
"Well, they want to FEEL earnest," Mr. Touchett allowed; "but it seems
as if they took it out in theories mostly. Their radical views are a
kind of amusement; they've got to have some amusement, and they might
have coarser tastes than that. You see they're very luxurious, and these
progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury. They make them feel
moral and yet don't damage their position. They think a great deal of
their position; don't let one of them ever persuade you he doesn't, for
if you were to proceed on that basis you'd be pulled up very short."
Isabel followed her uncle's argument, which he unfolded with his quaint
distinctness, most attentively, and though she was unacquainted with the
British aristocracy she found it in harmony with her general impressions
of human nature. But she felt moved to put in a protest on Lord
Warburton's behalf. "I don't believe Lord Warburton's a humbug; I don't
care what the others are. I should like to see Lord Warburton put to the
test."
"Heaven deliver me from my friends!" Mr. Touchett answered. "Lord
Warburton's a very amiable young man--a very fine young man. He has a
hundred thousand a year. He owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of
this little island and ever so many other things besides. He has half a
dozen houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I have one at my
own dinner-table. He has elegant tastes--cares for literature, for art,
for science, for charming young ladies. The most elegant is his taste
for the new views. It affords him a great deal of pleasure--more
perhaps than anything else, except the young ladies. His old house over
there--what does he call it, Lockleigh?--is very attractive; but I don't
think it's as pleasant as this. That doesn't matter, however--he has
so many others. His views don't hurt any one as far as I can see; they
certainly don't hurt himself. And if there were to be a revolution he
would come off very easily. They wouldn't touch him, they'd leave him as
he is: he's too much liked."
"Ah, he couldn't be a martyr even if he wished!" Isabel sighed. "That's
a very poor position."
"He'll never be a martyr unless you make him one," said the old man.
Isabel shook her head; there might have been something laughable in the
fact that she did it with a touch of melancholy. "I shall never make any
one a martyr."
"You'll never be one, I hope."
"I hope not. But you don't pity Lord Warburton then as Ralph does?"
Her uncle looked at her a while with genial acuteness. "Yes, I do, after
all!"
| Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a "fine work of art." It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called "the portrait of a lady," which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the "deepest" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more "formidable" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence? | analysis |
The two Misses Molyneux, this nobleman's sisters, came presently to call
upon her, and Isabel took a fancy to the young ladies, who appeared to
her to show a most original stamp. It is true that when she described
them to her cousin by that term he declared that no epithet could be
less applicable than this to the two Misses Molyneux, since there
were fifty thousand young women in England who exactly resembled them.
Deprived of this advantage, however, Isabel's visitors retained that
of an extreme sweetness and shyness of demeanour, and of having, as
she thought, eyes like the balanced basins, the circles of "ornamental
water," set, in parterres, among the geraniums.
"They're not morbid, at any rate, whatever they are," our heroine said
to herself; and she deemed this a great charm, for two or three of the
friends of her girlhood had been regrettably open to the charge (they
would have been so nice without it), to say nothing of Isabel's having
occasionally suspected it as a tendency of her own. The Misses Molyneux
were not in their first youth, but they had bright, fresh complexions
and something of the smile of childhood. Yes, their eyes, which Isabel
admired, were round, quiet and contented, and their figures, also of a
generous roundness, were encased in sealskin jackets. Their friendliness
was great, so great that they were almost embarrassed to show it; they
seemed somewhat afraid of the young lady from the other side of the
world and rather looked than spoke their good wishes. But they made it
clear to her that they hoped she would come to luncheon at Lockleigh,
where they lived with their brother, and then they might see her very,
very often. They wondered if she wouldn't come over some day, and sleep:
they were expecting some people on the twenty-ninth, so perhaps she
would come while the people were there.
"I'm afraid it isn't any one very remarkable," said the elder sister;
"but I dare say you'll take us as you find us."
"I shall find you delightful; I think you're enchanting just as you
are," replied Isabel, who often praised profusely.
Her visitors flushed, and her cousin told her, after they were gone,
that if she said such things to those poor girls they would think she
was in some wild, free manner practising on them: he was sure it was the
first time they had been called enchanting.
"I can't help it," Isabel answered. "I think it's lovely to be so quiet
and reasonable and satisfied. I should like to be like that."
"Heaven forbid!" cried Ralph with ardour.
"I mean to try and imitate them," said Isabel. "I want very much to see
them at home."
She had this pleasure a few days later, when, with Ralph and his mother,
she drove over to Lockleigh. She found the Misses Molyneux sitting in a
vast drawing-room (she perceived afterwards it was one of several) in a
wilderness of faded chintz; they were dressed on this occasion in black
velveteen. Isabel liked them even better at home than she had done at
Gardencourt, and was more than ever struck with the fact that they were
not morbid. It had seemed to her before that if they had a fault it was
a want of play of mind; but she presently saw they were capable of deep
emotion. Before luncheon she was alone with them for some time, on one
side of the room, while Lord Warburton, at a distance, talked to Mrs.
Touchett.
"Is it true your brother's such a great radical?" Isabel asked. She
knew it was true, but we have seen that her interest in human nature was
keen, and she had a desire to draw the Misses Molyneux out.
"Oh dear, yes; he's immensely advanced," said Mildred, the younger
sister.
"At the same time Warburton's very reasonable," Miss Molyneux observed.
Isabel watched him a moment at the other side of the room; he was
clearly trying hard to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Touchett. Ralph
had met the frank advances of one of the dogs before the fire that the
temperature of an English August, in the ancient expanses, had not
made an impertinence. "Do you suppose your brother's sincere?" Isabel
enquired with a smile.
"Oh, he must be, you know!" Mildred exclaimed quickly, while the elder
sister gazed at our heroine in silence.
"Do you think he would stand the test?"
"The test?"
"I mean for instance having to give up all this."
"Having to give up Lockleigh?" said Miss Molyneux, finding her voice.
"Yes, and the other places; what are they called?"
The two sisters exchanged an almost frightened glance. "Do you mean--do
you mean on account of the expense?" the younger one asked.
"I dare say he might let one or two of his houses," said the other.
"Let them for nothing?" Isabel demanded.
"I can't fancy his giving up his property," said Miss Molyneux.
"Ah, I'm afraid he is an impostor!" Isabel returned. "Don't you think
it's a false position?"
Her companions, evidently, had lost themselves. "My brother's position?"
Miss Molyneux enquired.
"It's thought a very good position," said the younger sister. "It's the
first position in this part of the county."
"I dare say you think me very irreverent," Isabel took occasion to
remark. "I suppose you revere your brother and are rather afraid of
him."
"Of course one looks up to one's brother," said Miss Molyneux simply.
"If you do that he must be very good--because you, evidently, are
beautifully good."
"He's most kind. It will never be known, the good he does."
"His ability is known," Mildred added; "every one thinks it's immense."
"Oh, I can see that," said Isabel. "But if I were he I should wish to
fight to the death: I mean for the heritage of the past. I should hold
it tight."
"I think one ought to be liberal," Mildred argued gently. "We've always
been so, even from the earliest times."
"Ah well," said Isabel, "you've made a great success of it; I don't
wonder you like it. I see you're very fond of crewels."
When Lord Warburton showed her the house, after luncheon, it seemed to
her a matter of course that it should be a noble picture. Within, it
had been a good deal modernised--some of its best points had lost their
purity; but as they saw it from the gardens, a stout grey pile, of the
softest, deepest, most weather-fretted hue, rising from a broad, still
moat, it affected the young visitor as a castle in a legend. The day was
cool and rather lustreless; the first note of autumn had been struck,
and the watery sunshine rested on the walls in blurred and desultory
gleams, washing them, as it were, in places tenderly chosen, where the
ache of antiquity was keenest. Her host's brother, the Vicar, had come
to luncheon, and Isabel had had five minutes' talk with him--time enough
to institute a search for a rich ecclesiasticism and give it up as
vain. The marks of the Vicar of Lockleigh were a big, athletic figure,
a candid, natural countenance, a capacious appetite and a tendency to
indiscriminate laughter. Isabel learned afterwards from her cousin
that before taking orders he had been a mighty wrestler and that he
was still, on occasion--in the privacy of the family circle as it
were--quite capable of flooring his man. Isabel liked him--she was in
the mood for liking everything; but her imagination was a good deal
taxed to think of him as a source of spiritual aid. The whole party, on
leaving lunch, went to walk in the grounds; but Lord Warburton exercised
some ingenuity in engaging his least familiar guest in a stroll apart
from the others.
"I wish you to see the place properly, seriously," he said. "You can't
do so if your attention is distracted by irrelevant gossip." His own
conversation (though he told Isabel a good deal about the house, which
had a very curious history) was not purely archaeological; he reverted
at intervals to matters more personal--matters personal to the young
lady as well as to himself. But at last, after a pause of some duration,
returning for a moment to their ostensible theme, "Ah, well," he said,
"I'm very glad indeed you like the old barrack. I wish you could see
more of it--that you could stay here a while. My sisters have taken an
immense fancy to you--if that would be any inducement."
"There's no want of inducements," Isabel answered; "but I'm afraid I
can't make engagements. I'm quite in my aunt's hands."
"Ah, pardon me if I say I don't exactly believe that. I'm pretty sure
you can do whatever you want."
"I'm sorry if I make that impression on you; I don't think it's a nice
impression to make."
"It has the merit of permitting me to hope." And Lord Warburton paused a
moment.
"To hope what?"
"That in future I may see you often."
"Ah," said Isabel, "to enjoy that pleasure I needn't be so terribly
emancipated."
"Doubtless not; and yet, at the same time, I don't think your uncle
likes me."
"You're very much mistaken. I've heard him speak very highly of you."
"I'm glad you have talked about me," said Lord Warburton. "But, I
nevertheless don't think he'd like me to keep coming to Gardencourt."
"I can't answer for my uncle's tastes," the girl rejoined, "though I
ought as far as possible to take them into account. But for myself I
shall be very glad to see you."
"Now that's what I like to hear you say. I'm charmed when you say that."
"You're easily charmed, my lord," said Isabel.
"No, I'm not easily charmed!" And then he stopped a moment. "But you've
charmed me, Miss Archer."
These words were uttered with an indefinable sound which startled the
girl; it struck her as the prelude to something grave: she had heard the
sound before and she recognised it. She had no wish, however, that for
the moment such a prelude should have a sequel, and she said as gaily
as possible and as quickly as an appreciable degree of agitation would
allow her: "I'm afraid there's no prospect of my being able to come here
again."
"Never?" said Lord Warburton.
"I won't say 'never'; I should feel very melodramatic."
"May I come and see you then some day next week?"
"Most assuredly. What is there to prevent it?"
"Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I've a sort of sense
that you're always summing people up."
"You don't of necessity lose by that."
"It's very kind of you to say so; but, even if I gain, stern justice is
not what I most love. Is Mrs. Touchett going to take you abroad?"
"I hope so."
"Is England not good enough for you?"
"That's a very Machiavellian speech; it doesn't deserve an answer. I
want to see as many countries as I can."
"Then you'll go on judging, I suppose."
"Enjoying, I hope, too."
"Yes, that's what you enjoy most; I can't make out what you're up to,"
said Lord Warburton. "You strike me as having mysterious purposes--vast
designs."
"You're so good as to have a theory about me which I don't at all fill
out. Is there anything mysterious in a purpose entertained and
executed every year, in the most public manner, by fifty thousand of
my fellow-countrymen--the purpose of improving one's mind by foreign
travel?"
"You can't improve your mind, Miss Archer," her companion declared.
"It's already a most formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it
despises us."
"Despises you? You're making fun of me," said Isabel seriously.
"Well, you think us 'quaint'--that's the same thing. I won't be thought
'quaint,' to begin with; I'm not so in the least. I protest."
"That protest is one of the quaintest things I've ever heard," Isabel
answered with a smile.
Lord Warburton was briefly silent. "You judge only from the outside--you
don't care," he said presently. "You only care to amuse yourself." The
note she had heard in his voice a moment before reappeared, and mixed
with it now was an audible strain of bitterness--a bitterness so abrupt
and inconsequent that the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She had
often heard that the English are a highly eccentric people, and she
had even read in some ingenious author that they are at bottom the most
romantic of races. Was Lord Warburton suddenly turning romantic--was he
going to make her a scene, in his own house, only the third time they
had met? She was reassured quickly enough by her sense of his great good
manners, which was not impaired by the fact that he had already touched
the furthest limit of good taste in expressing his admiration of a young
lady who had confided in his hospitality. She was right in trusting
to his good manners, for he presently went on, laughing a little and
without a trace of the accent that had discomposed her: "I don't mean of
course that you amuse yourself with trifles. You select great materials;
the foibles, the afflictions of human nature, the peculiarities of
nations!"
"As regards that," said Isabel, "I should find in my own nation
entertainment for a lifetime. But we've a long drive, and my aunt
will soon wish to start." She turned back toward the others and Lord
Warburton walked beside her in silence. But before they reached the
others, "I shall come and see you next week," he said.
She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died away she felt that
she couldn't pretend to herself that it was altogether a painful one.
Nevertheless she made answer to his declaration, coldly enough, "Just as
you please." And her coldness was not the calculation of her effect--a
game she played in a much smaller degree than would have seemed probable
to many critics. It came from a certain fear.
| Lord Warburton's two sisters, the Misses Molyneux, come to visit Gardencourt. Isabel notes that they are very timid but also very sweet, with the charm of not being "morbid". They invite her to Lockleigh during a time in which other guests will also be present. When Isabel visits them at Lockleigh, she asks if their brother, Lord Warburton, is really so radical that he would give up everything if he were put to the test. The two sisters look frightened at the prospect. Isabel then concludes that he must be an impostor. Mildred Molyneux attests that it has always been a tradition in their family to be liberal. Isabel sees Lockleigh as a "castle in a legend". She meets Lord Warburton's brother, the Vicar, who she can see as a very strong man, but whom she has difficulty imagining as a spiritual aid. The group goes on a stroll, and Lord Warburton speaks privately with Isabel during this stroll. He tells her that he finds her charming. Isabel senses that this is "the prelude to something grave" and quickly utters that she does not believe she will be visiting Lockleigh again. He tells her he will visit her at Gardencourt, even though he believes Mr. Touchett does not like him being there. Lord Warburton tells Isabel that he does not feel safe with her, having the sense that she is always summing people up, and that she has mysterious purposes. Isabel tells him that she only wants to improve her mind by foreign travel. He tells her that her mind is already a formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it despises us," he adds. Isabel tells him that he is being quite "quaint. He then seems to bitterly respond that she "judges only from the outside" and that she does not really care , even while she selects the great materials with which to amuse herself. He tells her he will visit her again. She responds coldly, "Just as you please". Her coldness, though, is calculated, and it comes from a fear deep within her | summary |
The two Misses Molyneux, this nobleman's sisters, came presently to call
upon her, and Isabel took a fancy to the young ladies, who appeared to
her to show a most original stamp. It is true that when she described
them to her cousin by that term he declared that no epithet could be
less applicable than this to the two Misses Molyneux, since there
were fifty thousand young women in England who exactly resembled them.
Deprived of this advantage, however, Isabel's visitors retained that
of an extreme sweetness and shyness of demeanour, and of having, as
she thought, eyes like the balanced basins, the circles of "ornamental
water," set, in parterres, among the geraniums.
"They're not morbid, at any rate, whatever they are," our heroine said
to herself; and she deemed this a great charm, for two or three of the
friends of her girlhood had been regrettably open to the charge (they
would have been so nice without it), to say nothing of Isabel's having
occasionally suspected it as a tendency of her own. The Misses Molyneux
were not in their first youth, but they had bright, fresh complexions
and something of the smile of childhood. Yes, their eyes, which Isabel
admired, were round, quiet and contented, and their figures, also of a
generous roundness, were encased in sealskin jackets. Their friendliness
was great, so great that they were almost embarrassed to show it; they
seemed somewhat afraid of the young lady from the other side of the
world and rather looked than spoke their good wishes. But they made it
clear to her that they hoped she would come to luncheon at Lockleigh,
where they lived with their brother, and then they might see her very,
very often. They wondered if she wouldn't come over some day, and sleep:
they were expecting some people on the twenty-ninth, so perhaps she
would come while the people were there.
"I'm afraid it isn't any one very remarkable," said the elder sister;
"but I dare say you'll take us as you find us."
"I shall find you delightful; I think you're enchanting just as you
are," replied Isabel, who often praised profusely.
Her visitors flushed, and her cousin told her, after they were gone,
that if she said such things to those poor girls they would think she
was in some wild, free manner practising on them: he was sure it was the
first time they had been called enchanting.
"I can't help it," Isabel answered. "I think it's lovely to be so quiet
and reasonable and satisfied. I should like to be like that."
"Heaven forbid!" cried Ralph with ardour.
"I mean to try and imitate them," said Isabel. "I want very much to see
them at home."
She had this pleasure a few days later, when, with Ralph and his mother,
she drove over to Lockleigh. She found the Misses Molyneux sitting in a
vast drawing-room (she perceived afterwards it was one of several) in a
wilderness of faded chintz; they were dressed on this occasion in black
velveteen. Isabel liked them even better at home than she had done at
Gardencourt, and was more than ever struck with the fact that they were
not morbid. It had seemed to her before that if they had a fault it was
a want of play of mind; but she presently saw they were capable of deep
emotion. Before luncheon she was alone with them for some time, on one
side of the room, while Lord Warburton, at a distance, talked to Mrs.
Touchett.
"Is it true your brother's such a great radical?" Isabel asked. She
knew it was true, but we have seen that her interest in human nature was
keen, and she had a desire to draw the Misses Molyneux out.
"Oh dear, yes; he's immensely advanced," said Mildred, the younger
sister.
"At the same time Warburton's very reasonable," Miss Molyneux observed.
Isabel watched him a moment at the other side of the room; he was
clearly trying hard to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Touchett. Ralph
had met the frank advances of one of the dogs before the fire that the
temperature of an English August, in the ancient expanses, had not
made an impertinence. "Do you suppose your brother's sincere?" Isabel
enquired with a smile.
"Oh, he must be, you know!" Mildred exclaimed quickly, while the elder
sister gazed at our heroine in silence.
"Do you think he would stand the test?"
"The test?"
"I mean for instance having to give up all this."
"Having to give up Lockleigh?" said Miss Molyneux, finding her voice.
"Yes, and the other places; what are they called?"
The two sisters exchanged an almost frightened glance. "Do you mean--do
you mean on account of the expense?" the younger one asked.
"I dare say he might let one or two of his houses," said the other.
"Let them for nothing?" Isabel demanded.
"I can't fancy his giving up his property," said Miss Molyneux.
"Ah, I'm afraid he is an impostor!" Isabel returned. "Don't you think
it's a false position?"
Her companions, evidently, had lost themselves. "My brother's position?"
Miss Molyneux enquired.
"It's thought a very good position," said the younger sister. "It's the
first position in this part of the county."
"I dare say you think me very irreverent," Isabel took occasion to
remark. "I suppose you revere your brother and are rather afraid of
him."
"Of course one looks up to one's brother," said Miss Molyneux simply.
"If you do that he must be very good--because you, evidently, are
beautifully good."
"He's most kind. It will never be known, the good he does."
"His ability is known," Mildred added; "every one thinks it's immense."
"Oh, I can see that," said Isabel. "But if I were he I should wish to
fight to the death: I mean for the heritage of the past. I should hold
it tight."
"I think one ought to be liberal," Mildred argued gently. "We've always
been so, even from the earliest times."
"Ah well," said Isabel, "you've made a great success of it; I don't
wonder you like it. I see you're very fond of crewels."
When Lord Warburton showed her the house, after luncheon, it seemed to
her a matter of course that it should be a noble picture. Within, it
had been a good deal modernised--some of its best points had lost their
purity; but as they saw it from the gardens, a stout grey pile, of the
softest, deepest, most weather-fretted hue, rising from a broad, still
moat, it affected the young visitor as a castle in a legend. The day was
cool and rather lustreless; the first note of autumn had been struck,
and the watery sunshine rested on the walls in blurred and desultory
gleams, washing them, as it were, in places tenderly chosen, where the
ache of antiquity was keenest. Her host's brother, the Vicar, had come
to luncheon, and Isabel had had five minutes' talk with him--time enough
to institute a search for a rich ecclesiasticism and give it up as
vain. The marks of the Vicar of Lockleigh were a big, athletic figure,
a candid, natural countenance, a capacious appetite and a tendency to
indiscriminate laughter. Isabel learned afterwards from her cousin
that before taking orders he had been a mighty wrestler and that he
was still, on occasion--in the privacy of the family circle as it
were--quite capable of flooring his man. Isabel liked him--she was in
the mood for liking everything; but her imagination was a good deal
taxed to think of him as a source of spiritual aid. The whole party, on
leaving lunch, went to walk in the grounds; but Lord Warburton exercised
some ingenuity in engaging his least familiar guest in a stroll apart
from the others.
"I wish you to see the place properly, seriously," he said. "You can't
do so if your attention is distracted by irrelevant gossip." His own
conversation (though he told Isabel a good deal about the house, which
had a very curious history) was not purely archaeological; he reverted
at intervals to matters more personal--matters personal to the young
lady as well as to himself. But at last, after a pause of some duration,
returning for a moment to their ostensible theme, "Ah, well," he said,
"I'm very glad indeed you like the old barrack. I wish you could see
more of it--that you could stay here a while. My sisters have taken an
immense fancy to you--if that would be any inducement."
"There's no want of inducements," Isabel answered; "but I'm afraid I
can't make engagements. I'm quite in my aunt's hands."
"Ah, pardon me if I say I don't exactly believe that. I'm pretty sure
you can do whatever you want."
"I'm sorry if I make that impression on you; I don't think it's a nice
impression to make."
"It has the merit of permitting me to hope." And Lord Warburton paused a
moment.
"To hope what?"
"That in future I may see you often."
"Ah," said Isabel, "to enjoy that pleasure I needn't be so terribly
emancipated."
"Doubtless not; and yet, at the same time, I don't think your uncle
likes me."
"You're very much mistaken. I've heard him speak very highly of you."
"I'm glad you have talked about me," said Lord Warburton. "But, I
nevertheless don't think he'd like me to keep coming to Gardencourt."
"I can't answer for my uncle's tastes," the girl rejoined, "though I
ought as far as possible to take them into account. But for myself I
shall be very glad to see you."
"Now that's what I like to hear you say. I'm charmed when you say that."
"You're easily charmed, my lord," said Isabel.
"No, I'm not easily charmed!" And then he stopped a moment. "But you've
charmed me, Miss Archer."
These words were uttered with an indefinable sound which startled the
girl; it struck her as the prelude to something grave: she had heard the
sound before and she recognised it. She had no wish, however, that for
the moment such a prelude should have a sequel, and she said as gaily
as possible and as quickly as an appreciable degree of agitation would
allow her: "I'm afraid there's no prospect of my being able to come here
again."
"Never?" said Lord Warburton.
"I won't say 'never'; I should feel very melodramatic."
"May I come and see you then some day next week?"
"Most assuredly. What is there to prevent it?"
"Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I've a sort of sense
that you're always summing people up."
"You don't of necessity lose by that."
"It's very kind of you to say so; but, even if I gain, stern justice is
not what I most love. Is Mrs. Touchett going to take you abroad?"
"I hope so."
"Is England not good enough for you?"
"That's a very Machiavellian speech; it doesn't deserve an answer. I
want to see as many countries as I can."
"Then you'll go on judging, I suppose."
"Enjoying, I hope, too."
"Yes, that's what you enjoy most; I can't make out what you're up to,"
said Lord Warburton. "You strike me as having mysterious purposes--vast
designs."
"You're so good as to have a theory about me which I don't at all fill
out. Is there anything mysterious in a purpose entertained and
executed every year, in the most public manner, by fifty thousand of
my fellow-countrymen--the purpose of improving one's mind by foreign
travel?"
"You can't improve your mind, Miss Archer," her companion declared.
"It's already a most formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it
despises us."
"Despises you? You're making fun of me," said Isabel seriously.
"Well, you think us 'quaint'--that's the same thing. I won't be thought
'quaint,' to begin with; I'm not so in the least. I protest."
"That protest is one of the quaintest things I've ever heard," Isabel
answered with a smile.
Lord Warburton was briefly silent. "You judge only from the outside--you
don't care," he said presently. "You only care to amuse yourself." The
note she had heard in his voice a moment before reappeared, and mixed
with it now was an audible strain of bitterness--a bitterness so abrupt
and inconsequent that the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She had
often heard that the English are a highly eccentric people, and she
had even read in some ingenious author that they are at bottom the most
romantic of races. Was Lord Warburton suddenly turning romantic--was he
going to make her a scene, in his own house, only the third time they
had met? She was reassured quickly enough by her sense of his great good
manners, which was not impaired by the fact that he had already touched
the furthest limit of good taste in expressing his admiration of a young
lady who had confided in his hospitality. She was right in trusting
to his good manners, for he presently went on, laughing a little and
without a trace of the accent that had discomposed her: "I don't mean of
course that you amuse yourself with trifles. You select great materials;
the foibles, the afflictions of human nature, the peculiarities of
nations!"
"As regards that," said Isabel, "I should find in my own nation
entertainment for a lifetime. But we've a long drive, and my aunt
will soon wish to start." She turned back toward the others and Lord
Warburton walked beside her in silence. But before they reached the
others, "I shall come and see you next week," he said.
She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died away she felt that
she couldn't pretend to herself that it was altogether a painful one.
Nevertheless she made answer to his declaration, coldly enough, "Just as
you please." And her coldness was not the calculation of her effect--a
game she played in a much smaller degree than would have seemed probable
to many critics. It came from a certain fear.
| Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a "fine work of art." It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called "the portrait of a lady," which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the "deepest" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more "formidable" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence? | analysis |
The day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note from her friend
Miss Stackpole--a note of which the envelope, exhibiting in conjunction
the postmark of Liverpool and the neat calligraphy of the quick-fingered
Henrietta, caused her some liveliness of emotion. "Here I am, my lovely
friend," Miss Stackpole wrote; "I managed to get off at last. I decided
only the night before I left New York--the Interviewer having come round
to my figure. I put a few things into a bag, like a veteran journalist,
and came down to the steamer in a street-car. Where are you and where
can we meet? I suppose you're visiting at some castle or other and have
already acquired the correct accent. Perhaps even you have married a
lord; I almost hope you have, for I want some introductions to the first
people and shall count on you for a few. The Interviewer wants some
light on the nobility. My first impressions (of the people at large) are
not rose-coloured; but I wish to talk them over with you, and you know
that, whatever I am, at least I'm not superficial. I've also something
very particular to tell you. Do appoint a meeting as quickly as you can;
come to London (I should like so much to visit the sights with you) or
else let me come to you, wherever you are. I will do so with pleasure;
for you know everything interests me and I wish to see as much as
possible of the inner life."
Isabel judged best not to show this letter to her uncle; but she
acquainted him with its purport, and, as she expected, he begged her
instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should be
delighted to receive her at Gardencourt. "Though she's a literary lady,"
he said, "I suppose that, being an American, she won't show me up, as
that other one did. She has seen others like me."
"She has seen no other so delightful!" Isabel answered; but she was
not altogether at ease about Henrietta's reproductive instincts, which
belonged to that side of her friend's character which she regarded with
least complacency. She wrote to Miss Stackpole, however, that she would
be very welcome under Mr. Touchett's roof; and this alert young woman
lost no time in announcing her prompt approach. She had gone up to
London, and it was from that centre that she took the train for the
station nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting
to receive her.
"Shall I love her or shall I hate her?" Ralph asked while they moved
along the platform.
"Whichever you do will matter very little to her," said Isabel. "She
doesn't care a straw what men think of her."
"As a man I'm bound to dislike her then. She must be a kind of monster.
Is she very ugly?"
"No, she's decidedly pretty."
"A female interviewer--a reporter in petticoats? I'm very curious to see
her," Ralph conceded.
"It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave as
she."
"I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person
require more or less pluck. Do you suppose she'll interview me?"
"Never in the world. She'll not think you of enough importance."
"You'll see," said Ralph. "She'll send a description of us all,
including Bunchie, to her newspaper."
"I shall ask her not to," Isabel answered.
"You think she's capable of it then?"
"Perfectly."
"And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?"
"I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of her
faults."
"Ah well," said Ralph, "I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite of her
merits."
"You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days."
"And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!" cried
the young man.
The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending,
proved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately, even though rather
provincially, fair. She was a neat, plump person, of medium stature,
with a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of
light brown ringlets at the back of her head and a peculiarly open,
surprised-looking eye. The most striking point in her appearance was the
remarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or
defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon
every object it happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon
Ralph himself, a little arrested by Miss Stackpole's gracious and
comfortable aspect, which hinted that it wouldn't be so easy as he had
assumed to disapprove of her. She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh,
dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a glance that she was as crisp
and new and comprehensive as a first issue before the folding. From top
to toe she had probably no misprint. She spoke in a clear, high voice--a
voice not rich but loud; yet after she had taken her place with her
companions in Mr. Touchett's carriage she struck him as not all in the
large type, the type of horrid "headings," that he had expected. She
answered the enquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which the
young man ventured to join, with copious lucidity; and later, in the
library at Gardencourt, when she had made the acquaintance of Mr.
Touchett (his wife not having thought it necessary to appear) did more
to give the measure of her confidence in her powers.
"Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves American
or English," she broke out. "If once I knew I could talk to you
accordingly."
"Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful," Ralph liberally answered.
She fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in their character
that reminded him of large polished buttons--buttons that might have
fixed the elastic loops of some tense receptacle: he seemed to see the
reflection of surrounding objects on the pupil. The expression of a
button is not usually deemed human, but there was something in Miss
Stackpole's gaze that made him, as a very modest man, feel vaguely
embarrassed--less inviolate, more dishonoured, than he liked. This
sensation, it must be added, after he had spent a day or two in her
company, sensibly diminished, though it never wholly lapsed. "I don't
suppose that you're going to undertake to persuade me that you're an
American," she said.
"To please you I'll be an Englishman, I'll be a Turk!"
"Well, if you can change about that way you're very welcome," Miss
Stackpole returned.
"I'm sure you understand everything and that differences of nationality
are no barrier to you," Ralph went on.
Miss Stackpole gazed at him still. "Do you mean the foreign languages?"
"The languages are nothing. I mean the spirit--the genius."
"I'm not sure that I understand you," said the correspondent of the
Interviewer; "but I expect I shall before I leave."
"He's what's called a cosmopolite," Isabel suggested.
"That means he's a little of everything and not much of any. I must say
I think patriotism is like charity--it begins at home."
"Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole?" Ralph enquired.
"I don't know where it begins, but I know where it ends. It ended a long
time before I got here."
"Don't you like it over here?" asked Mr. Touchett with his aged,
innocent voice.
"Well, sir, I haven't quite made up my mind what ground I shall take.
I feel a good deal cramped. I felt it on the journey from Liverpool to
London."
"Perhaps you were in a crowded carriage," Ralph suggested.
"Yes, but it was crowded with friends--party of Americans whose
acquaintance I had made upon the steamer; a lovely group from Little
Rock, Arkansas. In spite of that I felt cramped--I felt something
pressing upon me; I couldn't tell what it was. I felt at the very
commencement as if I were not going to accord with the atmosphere. But
I suppose I shall make my own atmosphere. That's the true way--then you
can breathe. Your surroundings seem very attractive."
"Ah, we too are a lovely group!" said Ralph. "Wait a little and you'll
see."
Miss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait and evidently was
prepared to make a considerable stay at Gardencourt. She occupied
herself in the mornings with literary labour; but in spite of this
Isabel spent many hours with her friend, who, once her daily task
performed, deprecated, in fact defied, isolation. Isabel speedily found
occasion to desire her to desist from celebrating the charms of their
common sojourn in print, having discovered, on the second morning
of Miss Stackpole's visit, that she was engaged on a letter to the
Interviewer, of which the title, in her exquisitely neat and legible
hand (exactly that of the copybooks which our heroine remembered at
school) was "Americans and Tudors--Glimpses of Gardencourt." Miss
Stackpole, with the best conscience in the world, offered to read her
letter to Isabel, who immediately put in her protest.
"I don't think you ought to do that. I don't think you ought to describe
the place."
Henrietta gazed at her as usual. "Why, it's just what the people want,
and it's a lovely place."
"It's too lovely to be put in the newspapers, and it's not what my uncle
wants."
"Don't you believe that!" cried Henrietta. "They're always delighted
afterwards."
"My uncle won't be delighted--nor my cousin either. They'll consider it
a breach of hospitality."
Miss Stackpole showed no sense of confusion; she simply wiped her pen,
very neatly, upon an elegant little implement which she kept for the
purpose, and put away her manuscript. "Of course if you don't approve I
won't do it; but I sacrifice a beautiful subject."
"There are plenty of other subjects, there are subjects all round you.
We'll take some drives; I'll show you some charming scenery."
"Scenery's not my department; I always need a human interest. You know
I'm deeply human, Isabel; I always was," Miss Stackpole rejoined. "I was
going to bring in your cousin--the alienated American. There's a
great demand just now for the alienated American, and your cousin's a
beautiful specimen. I should have handled him severely."
"He would have died of it!" Isabel exclaimed. "Not of the severity, but
of the publicity."
"Well, I should have liked to kill him a little. And I should have
delighted to do your uncle, who seems to me a much nobler type--the
American faithful still. He's a grand old man; I don't see how he can
object to my paying him honour."
Isabel looked at her companion in much wonderment; it struck her as
strange that a nature in which she found so much to esteem should break
down so in spots. "My poor Henrietta," she said, "you've no sense of
privacy."
Henrietta coloured deeply, and for a moment her brilliant eyes were
suffused, while Isabel found her more than ever inconsequent. "You do me
great injustice," said Miss Stackpole with dignity. "I've never written
a word about myself!"
"I'm very sure of that; but it seems to me one should be modest for
others also!"
"Ah, that's very good!" cried Henrietta, seizing her pen again. "Just
let me make a note of it and I'll put it in somewhere." she was a
thoroughly good-natured woman, and half an hour later she was in as
cheerful a mood as should have been looked for in a newspaper-lady
in want of matter. "I've promised to do the social side," she said to
Isabel; "and how can I do it unless I get ideas? If I can't describe
this place don't you know some place I can describe?" Isabel promised
she would bethink herself, and the next day, in conversation with her
friend, she happened to mention her visit to Lord Warburton's ancient
house. "Ah, you must take me there--that's just the place for me!" Miss
Stackpole cried. "I must get a glimpse of the nobility."
"I can't take you," said Isabel; "but Lord Warburton's coming here, and
you'll have a chance to see him and observe him. Only if you intend to
repeat his conversation I shall certainly give him warning."
"Don't do that," her companion pleaded; "I want him to be natural."
"An Englishman's never so natural as when he's holding his tongue,"
Isabel declared.
It was not apparent, at the end of three days, that her cousin had,
according to her prophecy, lost his heart to their visitor, though he
had spent a good deal of time in her society. They strolled about the
park together and sat under the trees, and in the afternoon, when it was
delightful to float along the Thames, Miss Stackpole occupied a place
in the boat in which hitherto Ralph had had but a single companion. Her
presence proved somehow less irreducible to soft particles than Ralph
had expected in the natural perturbation of his sense of the perfect
solubility of that of his cousin; for the correspondent of the
Interviewer prompted mirth in him, and he had long since decided that
the crescendo of mirth should be the flower of his declining days.
Henrietta, on her side, failed a little to justify Isabel's declaration
with regard to her indifference to masculine opinion; for poor Ralph
appeared to have presented himself to her as an irritating problem,
which it would be almost immoral not to work out.
"What does he do for a living?" she asked of Isabel the evening of her
arrival. "Does he go round all day with his hands in his pockets?"
"He does nothing," smiled Isabel; "he's a gentleman of large leisure."
"Well, I call that a shame--when I have to work like a car-conductor,"
Miss Stackpole replied. "I should like to show him up."
"He's in wretched health; he's quite unfit for work," Isabel urged.
"Pshaw! don't you believe it. I work when I'm sick," cried her friend.
Later, when she stepped into the boat on joining the water-party, she
remarked to Ralph that she supposed he hated her and would like to drown
her.
"Ah no," said Ralph, "I keep my victims for a slower torture. And you'd
be such an interesting one!"
"Well, you do torture me; I may say that. But I shock all your
prejudices; that's one comfort."
"My prejudices? I haven't a prejudice to bless myself with. There's
intellectual poverty for you."
"The more shame to you; I've some delicious ones. Of course I spoil your
flirtation, or whatever it is you call it, with your cousin; but I don't
care for that, as I render her the service of drawing you out. She'll
see how thin you are."
"Ah, do draw me out!" Ralph exclaimed. "So few people will take the
trouble."
Miss Stackpole, in this undertaking, appeared to shrink from no effort;
resorting largely, whenever the opportunity offered, to the natural
expedient of interrogation. On the following day the weather was
bad, and in the afternoon the young man, by way of providing indoor
amusement, offered to show her the pictures. Henrietta strolled through
the long gallery in his society, while he pointed out its principal
ornaments and mentioned the painters and subjects. Miss Stackpole looked
at the pictures in perfect silence, committing herself to no opinion,
and Ralph was gratified by the fact that she delivered herself of none
of the little ready-made ejaculations of delight of which the visitors
to Gardencourt were so frequently lavish. This young lady indeed, to do
her justice, was but little addicted to the use of conventional terms;
there was something earnest and inventive in her tone, which at times,
in its strained deliberation, suggested a person of high culture
speaking a foreign language. Ralph Touchett subsequently learned that
she had at one time officiated as art critic to a journal of the other
world; but she appeared, in spite of this fact, to carry in her pocket
none of the small change of admiration. Suddenly, just after he had
called her attention to a charming Constable, she turned and looked at
him as if he himself had been a picture.
"Do you always spend your time like this?" she demanded.
"I seldom spend it so agreeably."
"Well, you know what I mean--without any regular occupation."
"Ah," said Ralph, "I'm the idlest man living."
Miss Stackpole directed her gaze to the Constable again, and Ralph
bespoke her attention for a small Lancret hanging near it, which
represented a gentleman in a pink doublet and hose and a ruff, leaning
against the pedestal of the statue of a nymph in a garden and playing
the guitar to two ladies seated on the grass. "That's my ideal of a
regular occupation," he said.
Miss Stackpole turned to him again, and, though her eyes had rested
upon the picture, he saw she had missed the subject. She was thinking
of something much more serious. "I don't see how you can reconcile it to
your conscience."
"My dear lady, I have no conscience!"
"Well, I advise you to cultivate one. You'll need it the next time you
go to America."
"I shall probably never go again."
"Are you ashamed to show yourself?"
Ralph meditated with a mild smile. "I suppose that if one has no
conscience one has no shame."
"Well, you've got plenty of assurance," Henrietta declared. "Do you
consider it right to give up your country?"
"Ah, one doesn't give up one's country any more than one gives UP
one's grandmother. They're both antecedent to choice--elements of one's
composition that are not to be eliminated."
"I suppose that means that you've tried and been worsted. What do they
think of you over here?"
"They delight in me."
"That's because you truckle to them."
"Ah, set it down a little to my natural charm!" Ralph sighed.
"I don't know anything about your natural charm. If you've got any charm
it's quite unnatural. It's wholly acquired--or at least you've tried
hard to acquire it, living over here. I don't say you've succeeded. It's
a charm that I don't appreciate, anyway. Make yourself useful in some
way, and then we'll talk about it." "Well, now, tell me what I shall
do," said Ralph.
"Go right home, to begin with."
"Yes, I see. And then?"
"Take right hold of something."
"Well, now, what sort of thing?"
"Anything you please, so long as you take hold. Some new idea, some big
work."
"Is it very difficult to take hold?" Ralph enquired.
"Not if you put your heart into it."
"Ah, my heart," said Ralph. "If it depends upon my heart--!"
"Haven't you got a heart?"
"I had one a few days ago, but I've lost it since."
"You're not serious," Miss Stackpole remarked; "that's what's the matter
with you." But for all this, in a day or two, she again permitted him to
fix her attention and on the later occasion assigned a different cause
to her mysterious perversity. "I know what's the matter with you, Mr.
Touchett," she said. "You think you're too good to get married."
"I thought so till I knew you, Miss Stackpole," Ralph answered; "and
then I suddenly changed my mind."
"Oh pshaw!" Henrietta groaned.
"Then it seemed to me," said Ralph, "that I was not good enough."
"It would improve you. Besides, it's your duty."
"Ah," cried the young man, "one has so many duties! Is that a duty too?"
"Of course it is--did you never know that before? It's every one's duty
to get married."
Ralph meditated a moment; he was disappointed. There was something in
Miss Stackpole he had begun to like; it seemed to him that if she
was not a charming woman she was at least a very good "sort." She was
wanting in distinction, but, as Isabel had said, she was brave: she went
into cages, she flourished lashes, like a spangled lion-tamer. He had
not supposed her to be capable of vulgar arts, but these last words
struck him as a false note. When a marriageable young woman urges
matrimony on an unencumbered young man the most obvious explanation of
her conduct is not the altruistic impulse.
"Ah, well now, there's a good deal to be said about that," Ralph
rejoined.
"There may be, but that's the principal thing. I must say I think it
looks very exclusive, going round all alone, as if you thought no woman
was good enough for you. Do you think you're better than any one else in
the world? In America it's usual for people to marry."
"If it's my duty," Ralph asked, "is it not, by analogy, yours as well?"
Miss Stackpole's ocular surfaces unwinkingly caught the sun. "Have you
the fond hope of finding a flaw in my reasoning? Of course I've as good
a right to marry as any one else."
"Well then," said Ralph, "I won't say it vexes me to see you single. It
delights me rather."
"You're not serious yet. You never will be."
"Shall you not believe me to be so on the day I tell you I desire to
give up the practice of going round alone?"
Miss Stackpole looked at him for a moment in a manner which seemed to
announce a reply that might technically be called encouraging. But to
his great surprise this expression suddenly resolved itself into an
appearance of alarm and even of resentment. "No, not even then," she
answered dryly. After which she walked away.
"I've not conceived a passion for your friend," Ralph said that evening
to Isabel, "though we talked some time this morning about it."
"And you said something she didn't like," the girl replied.
Ralph stared. "Has she complained of me?"
"She told me she thinks there's something very low in the tone of
Europeans towards women."
"Does she call me a European?"
"One of the worst. She told me you had said to her something that an
American never would have said. But she didn't repeat it."
Ralph treated himself to a luxury of laughter. "She's an extraordinary
combination. Did she think I was making love to her?"
"No; I believe even Americans do that. But she apparently thought you
mistook the intention of something she had said, and put an unkind
construction on it."
"I thought she was proposing marriage to me and I accepted her. Was that
unkind?"
Isabel smiled. "It was unkind to me. I don't want you to marry."
"My dear cousin, what's one to do among you all?" Ralph demanded. "Miss
Stackpole tells me it's my bounden duty, and that it's hers, in general,
to see I do mine!"
"She has a great sense of duty," said Isabel gravely. "She has indeed,
and it's the motive of everything she says. That's what I like her for.
She thinks it's unworthy of you to keep so many things to yourself.
That's what she wanted to express. If you thought she was trying to--to
attract you, you were very wrong."
"It's true it was an odd way, but I did think she was trying to attract
me. Forgive my depravity."
"You're very conceited. She had no interested views, and never supposed
you would think she had."
"One must be very modest then to talk with such women," Ralph said
humbly. "But it's a very strange type. She's too personal--considering
that she expects other people not to be. She walks in without knocking
at the door."
"Yes," Isabel admitted, "she doesn't sufficiently recognise the
existence of knockers; and indeed I'm not sure that she doesn't think
them rather a pretentious ornament. She thinks one's door should stand
ajar. But I persist in liking her."
"I persist in thinking her too familiar," Ralph rejoined, naturally
somewhat uncomfortable under the sense of having been doubly deceived in
Miss Stackpole.
"Well," said Isabel, smiling, "I'm afraid it's because she's rather
vulgar that I like her."
"She would be flattered by your reason!"
"If I should tell her I wouldn't express it in that way. I should say
it's because there's something of the 'people' in her."
"What do you know about the people? and what does she, for that matter?"
"She knows a great deal, and I know enough to feel that she's a kind
of emanation of the great democracy--of the continent, the country, the
nation. I don't say that she sums it all up, that would be too much to
ask of her. But she suggests it; she vividly figures it."
"You like her then for patriotic reasons. I'm afraid it is on those very
grounds I object to her."
"Ah," said Isabel with a kind of joyous sigh, "I like so many things! If
a thing strikes me with a certain intensity I accept it. I don't want to
swagger, but I suppose I'm rather versatile. I like people to be totally
different from Henrietta--in the style of Lord Warburton's sisters for
instance. So long as I look at the Misses Molyneux they seem to me
to answer a kind of ideal. Then Henrietta presents herself, and I'm
straightway convinced by her; not so much in respect to herself as in
respect to what masses behind her."
"Ah, you mean the back view of her," Ralph suggested.
"What she says is true," his cousin answered; "you'll never be serious.
I like the great country stretching away beyond the rivers and across
the prairies, blooming and smiling and spreading till it stops at the
green Pacific! A strong, sweet, fresh odour seems to rise from it,
and Henrietta--pardon my simile--has something of that odour in her
garments."
Isabel blushed a little as she concluded this speech, and the blush,
together with the momentary ardour she had thrown into it, was so
becoming to her that Ralph stood smiling at her for a moment after she
had ceased speaking. "I'm not sure the Pacific's so green as that," he
said; "but you're a young woman of imagination. Henrietta, however, does
smell of the Future--it almost knocks one down!"
| Isabel's friend, Henrietta Stackpole, the independent American journalist, arrives in England and visits at Gardencourt to see Isabel. She is described as a neat, plump person with a remarkably observant eye. Henrietta declares to the Touchetts that she would like to know if they consider themselves American or English, so that she will know how to talk to them. Ralph tells her that, in order to please her, he'll be an Englishman, or even a Turk. Isabel intercedes that Ralph is a cosmopolite. Isabel discovers that Henrietta is writing an article on Gardencourt, and tells her that she should not write about the place. Henrietta thinks they will be delighted afterwards, and Isabel protests that Henrietta has no sense of privacy. Henrietta blushes. Later, she asks Isabel if there is some other place she can describe, and Isabel tells her that she could give her a glimpse of Lord Warburton, and perhaps she can observe him. Henrietta finds it odd that Ralph spends his time so idly, without occupation. She asks how he can reconcile his idleness with his conscience, to which he responds, "I have no conscience. Henrietta proceeds to interrogate him on having abandoned his own country, and Ralph responds that one's country is not a choice, but only an "element of one's composition". Henrietta counsels Ralph to "take hold of something" -- that is, find something to work on. A few days later, Henrietta diagnoses Ralph: "I know what's the matter with you. you think you're too good to get married". Ralph jokes that he thought so until he met Henrietta. She thinks that getting married would improve him, and that it is his "duty". Ralph suspects Henrietta has ulterior motives, so he decides to test this by circuitously suggesting that he is proposing to Henrietta. Henrietta gives him a look of resentment. Isabel later tells Ralph that Henrietta thinks Europeans have a low tone towards women. Ralph notes that perhaps he treats her too personally. He thinks though, that she has the "smell of the Future" | summary |
The day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note from her friend
Miss Stackpole--a note of which the envelope, exhibiting in conjunction
the postmark of Liverpool and the neat calligraphy of the quick-fingered
Henrietta, caused her some liveliness of emotion. "Here I am, my lovely
friend," Miss Stackpole wrote; "I managed to get off at last. I decided
only the night before I left New York--the Interviewer having come round
to my figure. I put a few things into a bag, like a veteran journalist,
and came down to the steamer in a street-car. Where are you and where
can we meet? I suppose you're visiting at some castle or other and have
already acquired the correct accent. Perhaps even you have married a
lord; I almost hope you have, for I want some introductions to the first
people and shall count on you for a few. The Interviewer wants some
light on the nobility. My first impressions (of the people at large) are
not rose-coloured; but I wish to talk them over with you, and you know
that, whatever I am, at least I'm not superficial. I've also something
very particular to tell you. Do appoint a meeting as quickly as you can;
come to London (I should like so much to visit the sights with you) or
else let me come to you, wherever you are. I will do so with pleasure;
for you know everything interests me and I wish to see as much as
possible of the inner life."
Isabel judged best not to show this letter to her uncle; but she
acquainted him with its purport, and, as she expected, he begged her
instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should be
delighted to receive her at Gardencourt. "Though she's a literary lady,"
he said, "I suppose that, being an American, she won't show me up, as
that other one did. She has seen others like me."
"She has seen no other so delightful!" Isabel answered; but she was
not altogether at ease about Henrietta's reproductive instincts, which
belonged to that side of her friend's character which she regarded with
least complacency. She wrote to Miss Stackpole, however, that she would
be very welcome under Mr. Touchett's roof; and this alert young woman
lost no time in announcing her prompt approach. She had gone up to
London, and it was from that centre that she took the train for the
station nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting
to receive her.
"Shall I love her or shall I hate her?" Ralph asked while they moved
along the platform.
"Whichever you do will matter very little to her," said Isabel. "She
doesn't care a straw what men think of her."
"As a man I'm bound to dislike her then. She must be a kind of monster.
Is she very ugly?"
"No, she's decidedly pretty."
"A female interviewer--a reporter in petticoats? I'm very curious to see
her," Ralph conceded.
"It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave as
she."
"I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person
require more or less pluck. Do you suppose she'll interview me?"
"Never in the world. She'll not think you of enough importance."
"You'll see," said Ralph. "She'll send a description of us all,
including Bunchie, to her newspaper."
"I shall ask her not to," Isabel answered.
"You think she's capable of it then?"
"Perfectly."
"And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?"
"I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of her
faults."
"Ah well," said Ralph, "I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite of her
merits."
"You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days."
"And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!" cried
the young man.
The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending,
proved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately, even though rather
provincially, fair. She was a neat, plump person, of medium stature,
with a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of
light brown ringlets at the back of her head and a peculiarly open,
surprised-looking eye. The most striking point in her appearance was the
remarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or
defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon
every object it happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon
Ralph himself, a little arrested by Miss Stackpole's gracious and
comfortable aspect, which hinted that it wouldn't be so easy as he had
assumed to disapprove of her. She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh,
dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a glance that she was as crisp
and new and comprehensive as a first issue before the folding. From top
to toe she had probably no misprint. She spoke in a clear, high voice--a
voice not rich but loud; yet after she had taken her place with her
companions in Mr. Touchett's carriage she struck him as not all in the
large type, the type of horrid "headings," that he had expected. She
answered the enquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which the
young man ventured to join, with copious lucidity; and later, in the
library at Gardencourt, when she had made the acquaintance of Mr.
Touchett (his wife not having thought it necessary to appear) did more
to give the measure of her confidence in her powers.
"Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves American
or English," she broke out. "If once I knew I could talk to you
accordingly."
"Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful," Ralph liberally answered.
She fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in their character
that reminded him of large polished buttons--buttons that might have
fixed the elastic loops of some tense receptacle: he seemed to see the
reflection of surrounding objects on the pupil. The expression of a
button is not usually deemed human, but there was something in Miss
Stackpole's gaze that made him, as a very modest man, feel vaguely
embarrassed--less inviolate, more dishonoured, than he liked. This
sensation, it must be added, after he had spent a day or two in her
company, sensibly diminished, though it never wholly lapsed. "I don't
suppose that you're going to undertake to persuade me that you're an
American," she said.
"To please you I'll be an Englishman, I'll be a Turk!"
"Well, if you can change about that way you're very welcome," Miss
Stackpole returned.
"I'm sure you understand everything and that differences of nationality
are no barrier to you," Ralph went on.
Miss Stackpole gazed at him still. "Do you mean the foreign languages?"
"The languages are nothing. I mean the spirit--the genius."
"I'm not sure that I understand you," said the correspondent of the
Interviewer; "but I expect I shall before I leave."
"He's what's called a cosmopolite," Isabel suggested.
"That means he's a little of everything and not much of any. I must say
I think patriotism is like charity--it begins at home."
"Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole?" Ralph enquired.
"I don't know where it begins, but I know where it ends. It ended a long
time before I got here."
"Don't you like it over here?" asked Mr. Touchett with his aged,
innocent voice.
"Well, sir, I haven't quite made up my mind what ground I shall take.
I feel a good deal cramped. I felt it on the journey from Liverpool to
London."
"Perhaps you were in a crowded carriage," Ralph suggested.
"Yes, but it was crowded with friends--party of Americans whose
acquaintance I had made upon the steamer; a lovely group from Little
Rock, Arkansas. In spite of that I felt cramped--I felt something
pressing upon me; I couldn't tell what it was. I felt at the very
commencement as if I were not going to accord with the atmosphere. But
I suppose I shall make my own atmosphere. That's the true way--then you
can breathe. Your surroundings seem very attractive."
"Ah, we too are a lovely group!" said Ralph. "Wait a little and you'll
see."
Miss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait and evidently was
prepared to make a considerable stay at Gardencourt. She occupied
herself in the mornings with literary labour; but in spite of this
Isabel spent many hours with her friend, who, once her daily task
performed, deprecated, in fact defied, isolation. Isabel speedily found
occasion to desire her to desist from celebrating the charms of their
common sojourn in print, having discovered, on the second morning
of Miss Stackpole's visit, that she was engaged on a letter to the
Interviewer, of which the title, in her exquisitely neat and legible
hand (exactly that of the copybooks which our heroine remembered at
school) was "Americans and Tudors--Glimpses of Gardencourt." Miss
Stackpole, with the best conscience in the world, offered to read her
letter to Isabel, who immediately put in her protest.
"I don't think you ought to do that. I don't think you ought to describe
the place."
Henrietta gazed at her as usual. "Why, it's just what the people want,
and it's a lovely place."
"It's too lovely to be put in the newspapers, and it's not what my uncle
wants."
"Don't you believe that!" cried Henrietta. "They're always delighted
afterwards."
"My uncle won't be delighted--nor my cousin either. They'll consider it
a breach of hospitality."
Miss Stackpole showed no sense of confusion; she simply wiped her pen,
very neatly, upon an elegant little implement which she kept for the
purpose, and put away her manuscript. "Of course if you don't approve I
won't do it; but I sacrifice a beautiful subject."
"There are plenty of other subjects, there are subjects all round you.
We'll take some drives; I'll show you some charming scenery."
"Scenery's not my department; I always need a human interest. You know
I'm deeply human, Isabel; I always was," Miss Stackpole rejoined. "I was
going to bring in your cousin--the alienated American. There's a
great demand just now for the alienated American, and your cousin's a
beautiful specimen. I should have handled him severely."
"He would have died of it!" Isabel exclaimed. "Not of the severity, but
of the publicity."
"Well, I should have liked to kill him a little. And I should have
delighted to do your uncle, who seems to me a much nobler type--the
American faithful still. He's a grand old man; I don't see how he can
object to my paying him honour."
Isabel looked at her companion in much wonderment; it struck her as
strange that a nature in which she found so much to esteem should break
down so in spots. "My poor Henrietta," she said, "you've no sense of
privacy."
Henrietta coloured deeply, and for a moment her brilliant eyes were
suffused, while Isabel found her more than ever inconsequent. "You do me
great injustice," said Miss Stackpole with dignity. "I've never written
a word about myself!"
"I'm very sure of that; but it seems to me one should be modest for
others also!"
"Ah, that's very good!" cried Henrietta, seizing her pen again. "Just
let me make a note of it and I'll put it in somewhere." she was a
thoroughly good-natured woman, and half an hour later she was in as
cheerful a mood as should have been looked for in a newspaper-lady
in want of matter. "I've promised to do the social side," she said to
Isabel; "and how can I do it unless I get ideas? If I can't describe
this place don't you know some place I can describe?" Isabel promised
she would bethink herself, and the next day, in conversation with her
friend, she happened to mention her visit to Lord Warburton's ancient
house. "Ah, you must take me there--that's just the place for me!" Miss
Stackpole cried. "I must get a glimpse of the nobility."
"I can't take you," said Isabel; "but Lord Warburton's coming here, and
you'll have a chance to see him and observe him. Only if you intend to
repeat his conversation I shall certainly give him warning."
"Don't do that," her companion pleaded; "I want him to be natural."
"An Englishman's never so natural as when he's holding his tongue,"
Isabel declared.
It was not apparent, at the end of three days, that her cousin had,
according to her prophecy, lost his heart to their visitor, though he
had spent a good deal of time in her society. They strolled about the
park together and sat under the trees, and in the afternoon, when it was
delightful to float along the Thames, Miss Stackpole occupied a place
in the boat in which hitherto Ralph had had but a single companion. Her
presence proved somehow less irreducible to soft particles than Ralph
had expected in the natural perturbation of his sense of the perfect
solubility of that of his cousin; for the correspondent of the
Interviewer prompted mirth in him, and he had long since decided that
the crescendo of mirth should be the flower of his declining days.
Henrietta, on her side, failed a little to justify Isabel's declaration
with regard to her indifference to masculine opinion; for poor Ralph
appeared to have presented himself to her as an irritating problem,
which it would be almost immoral not to work out.
"What does he do for a living?" she asked of Isabel the evening of her
arrival. "Does he go round all day with his hands in his pockets?"
"He does nothing," smiled Isabel; "he's a gentleman of large leisure."
"Well, I call that a shame--when I have to work like a car-conductor,"
Miss Stackpole replied. "I should like to show him up."
"He's in wretched health; he's quite unfit for work," Isabel urged.
"Pshaw! don't you believe it. I work when I'm sick," cried her friend.
Later, when she stepped into the boat on joining the water-party, she
remarked to Ralph that she supposed he hated her and would like to drown
her.
"Ah no," said Ralph, "I keep my victims for a slower torture. And you'd
be such an interesting one!"
"Well, you do torture me; I may say that. But I shock all your
prejudices; that's one comfort."
"My prejudices? I haven't a prejudice to bless myself with. There's
intellectual poverty for you."
"The more shame to you; I've some delicious ones. Of course I spoil your
flirtation, or whatever it is you call it, with your cousin; but I don't
care for that, as I render her the service of drawing you out. She'll
see how thin you are."
"Ah, do draw me out!" Ralph exclaimed. "So few people will take the
trouble."
Miss Stackpole, in this undertaking, appeared to shrink from no effort;
resorting largely, whenever the opportunity offered, to the natural
expedient of interrogation. On the following day the weather was
bad, and in the afternoon the young man, by way of providing indoor
amusement, offered to show her the pictures. Henrietta strolled through
the long gallery in his society, while he pointed out its principal
ornaments and mentioned the painters and subjects. Miss Stackpole looked
at the pictures in perfect silence, committing herself to no opinion,
and Ralph was gratified by the fact that she delivered herself of none
of the little ready-made ejaculations of delight of which the visitors
to Gardencourt were so frequently lavish. This young lady indeed, to do
her justice, was but little addicted to the use of conventional terms;
there was something earnest and inventive in her tone, which at times,
in its strained deliberation, suggested a person of high culture
speaking a foreign language. Ralph Touchett subsequently learned that
she had at one time officiated as art critic to a journal of the other
world; but she appeared, in spite of this fact, to carry in her pocket
none of the small change of admiration. Suddenly, just after he had
called her attention to a charming Constable, she turned and looked at
him as if he himself had been a picture.
"Do you always spend your time like this?" she demanded.
"I seldom spend it so agreeably."
"Well, you know what I mean--without any regular occupation."
"Ah," said Ralph, "I'm the idlest man living."
Miss Stackpole directed her gaze to the Constable again, and Ralph
bespoke her attention for a small Lancret hanging near it, which
represented a gentleman in a pink doublet and hose and a ruff, leaning
against the pedestal of the statue of a nymph in a garden and playing
the guitar to two ladies seated on the grass. "That's my ideal of a
regular occupation," he said.
Miss Stackpole turned to him again, and, though her eyes had rested
upon the picture, he saw she had missed the subject. She was thinking
of something much more serious. "I don't see how you can reconcile it to
your conscience."
"My dear lady, I have no conscience!"
"Well, I advise you to cultivate one. You'll need it the next time you
go to America."
"I shall probably never go again."
"Are you ashamed to show yourself?"
Ralph meditated with a mild smile. "I suppose that if one has no
conscience one has no shame."
"Well, you've got plenty of assurance," Henrietta declared. "Do you
consider it right to give up your country?"
"Ah, one doesn't give up one's country any more than one gives UP
one's grandmother. They're both antecedent to choice--elements of one's
composition that are not to be eliminated."
"I suppose that means that you've tried and been worsted. What do they
think of you over here?"
"They delight in me."
"That's because you truckle to them."
"Ah, set it down a little to my natural charm!" Ralph sighed.
"I don't know anything about your natural charm. If you've got any charm
it's quite unnatural. It's wholly acquired--or at least you've tried
hard to acquire it, living over here. I don't say you've succeeded. It's
a charm that I don't appreciate, anyway. Make yourself useful in some
way, and then we'll talk about it." "Well, now, tell me what I shall
do," said Ralph.
"Go right home, to begin with."
"Yes, I see. And then?"
"Take right hold of something."
"Well, now, what sort of thing?"
"Anything you please, so long as you take hold. Some new idea, some big
work."
"Is it very difficult to take hold?" Ralph enquired.
"Not if you put your heart into it."
"Ah, my heart," said Ralph. "If it depends upon my heart--!"
"Haven't you got a heart?"
"I had one a few days ago, but I've lost it since."
"You're not serious," Miss Stackpole remarked; "that's what's the matter
with you." But for all this, in a day or two, she again permitted him to
fix her attention and on the later occasion assigned a different cause
to her mysterious perversity. "I know what's the matter with you, Mr.
Touchett," she said. "You think you're too good to get married."
"I thought so till I knew you, Miss Stackpole," Ralph answered; "and
then I suddenly changed my mind."
"Oh pshaw!" Henrietta groaned.
"Then it seemed to me," said Ralph, "that I was not good enough."
"It would improve you. Besides, it's your duty."
"Ah," cried the young man, "one has so many duties! Is that a duty too?"
"Of course it is--did you never know that before? It's every one's duty
to get married."
Ralph meditated a moment; he was disappointed. There was something in
Miss Stackpole he had begun to like; it seemed to him that if she
was not a charming woman she was at least a very good "sort." She was
wanting in distinction, but, as Isabel had said, she was brave: she went
into cages, she flourished lashes, like a spangled lion-tamer. He had
not supposed her to be capable of vulgar arts, but these last words
struck him as a false note. When a marriageable young woman urges
matrimony on an unencumbered young man the most obvious explanation of
her conduct is not the altruistic impulse.
"Ah, well now, there's a good deal to be said about that," Ralph
rejoined.
"There may be, but that's the principal thing. I must say I think it
looks very exclusive, going round all alone, as if you thought no woman
was good enough for you. Do you think you're better than any one else in
the world? In America it's usual for people to marry."
"If it's my duty," Ralph asked, "is it not, by analogy, yours as well?"
Miss Stackpole's ocular surfaces unwinkingly caught the sun. "Have you
the fond hope of finding a flaw in my reasoning? Of course I've as good
a right to marry as any one else."
"Well then," said Ralph, "I won't say it vexes me to see you single. It
delights me rather."
"You're not serious yet. You never will be."
"Shall you not believe me to be so on the day I tell you I desire to
give up the practice of going round alone?"
Miss Stackpole looked at him for a moment in a manner which seemed to
announce a reply that might technically be called encouraging. But to
his great surprise this expression suddenly resolved itself into an
appearance of alarm and even of resentment. "No, not even then," she
answered dryly. After which she walked away.
"I've not conceived a passion for your friend," Ralph said that evening
to Isabel, "though we talked some time this morning about it."
"And you said something she didn't like," the girl replied.
Ralph stared. "Has she complained of me?"
"She told me she thinks there's something very low in the tone of
Europeans towards women."
"Does she call me a European?"
"One of the worst. She told me you had said to her something that an
American never would have said. But she didn't repeat it."
Ralph treated himself to a luxury of laughter. "She's an extraordinary
combination. Did she think I was making love to her?"
"No; I believe even Americans do that. But she apparently thought you
mistook the intention of something she had said, and put an unkind
construction on it."
"I thought she was proposing marriage to me and I accepted her. Was that
unkind?"
Isabel smiled. "It was unkind to me. I don't want you to marry."
"My dear cousin, what's one to do among you all?" Ralph demanded. "Miss
Stackpole tells me it's my bounden duty, and that it's hers, in general,
to see I do mine!"
"She has a great sense of duty," said Isabel gravely. "She has indeed,
and it's the motive of everything she says. That's what I like her for.
She thinks it's unworthy of you to keep so many things to yourself.
That's what she wanted to express. If you thought she was trying to--to
attract you, you were very wrong."
"It's true it was an odd way, but I did think she was trying to attract
me. Forgive my depravity."
"You're very conceited. She had no interested views, and never supposed
you would think she had."
"One must be very modest then to talk with such women," Ralph said
humbly. "But it's a very strange type. She's too personal--considering
that she expects other people not to be. She walks in without knocking
at the door."
"Yes," Isabel admitted, "she doesn't sufficiently recognise the
existence of knockers; and indeed I'm not sure that she doesn't think
them rather a pretentious ornament. She thinks one's door should stand
ajar. But I persist in liking her."
"I persist in thinking her too familiar," Ralph rejoined, naturally
somewhat uncomfortable under the sense of having been doubly deceived in
Miss Stackpole.
"Well," said Isabel, smiling, "I'm afraid it's because she's rather
vulgar that I like her."
"She would be flattered by your reason!"
"If I should tell her I wouldn't express it in that way. I should say
it's because there's something of the 'people' in her."
"What do you know about the people? and what does she, for that matter?"
"She knows a great deal, and I know enough to feel that she's a kind
of emanation of the great democracy--of the continent, the country, the
nation. I don't say that she sums it all up, that would be too much to
ask of her. But she suggests it; she vividly figures it."
"You like her then for patriotic reasons. I'm afraid it is on those very
grounds I object to her."
"Ah," said Isabel with a kind of joyous sigh, "I like so many things! If
a thing strikes me with a certain intensity I accept it. I don't want to
swagger, but I suppose I'm rather versatile. I like people to be totally
different from Henrietta--in the style of Lord Warburton's sisters for
instance. So long as I look at the Misses Molyneux they seem to me
to answer a kind of ideal. Then Henrietta presents herself, and I'm
straightway convinced by her; not so much in respect to herself as in
respect to what masses behind her."
"Ah, you mean the back view of her," Ralph suggested.
"What she says is true," his cousin answered; "you'll never be serious.
I like the great country stretching away beyond the rivers and across
the prairies, blooming and smiling and spreading till it stops at the
green Pacific! A strong, sweet, fresh odour seems to rise from it,
and Henrietta--pardon my simile--has something of that odour in her
garments."
Isabel blushed a little as she concluded this speech, and the blush,
together with the momentary ardour she had thrown into it, was so
becoming to her that Ralph stood smiling at her for a moment after she
had ceased speaking. "I'm not sure the Pacific's so green as that," he
said; "but you're a young woman of imagination. Henrietta, however, does
smell of the Future--it almost knocks one down!"
| Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions. | analysis |
He took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words even when
Miss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note most strongly. He
bethought himself that persons, in her view, were simple and homogeneous
organisms, and that he, for his own part, was too perverted a
representative of the nature of man to have a right to deal with her
in strict reciprocity. He carried out his resolve with a great deal of
tact, and the young lady found in renewed contact with him no obstacle
to the exercise of her genius for unshrinking enquiry, the general
application of her confidence. Her situation at Gardencourt therefore,
appreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel and full of appreciation
herself of that free play of intelligence which, to her sense, rendered
Isabel's character a sister-spirit, and of the easy venerableness of Mr.
Touchett, whose noble tone, as she said, met with her full approval--her
situation at Gardencourt would have been perfectly comfortable had she
not conceived an irresistible mistrust of the little lady for whom she
had at first supposed herself obliged to "allow" as mistress of the
house. She presently discovered, in truth, that this obligation was of
the lightest and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpole
behaved. Mrs. Touchett had defined her to Isabel as both an adventuress
and a bore--adventuresses usually giving one more of a thrill; she had
expressed some surprise at her niece's having selected such a friend,
yet had immediately added that she knew Isabel's friends were her own
affair and that she had never undertaken to like them all or to restrict
the girl to those she liked.
"If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you'd have a very
small society," Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; "and I don't think I
like any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. When
it comes to recommending it's a serious affair. I don't like Miss
Stackpole--everything about her displeases me; she talks so much
too loud and looks at one as if one wanted to look at her--which one
doesn't. I'm sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-house, and I
detest the manners and the liberties of such places. If you ask me if I
prefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad, I'll tell
you that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows I detest
boarding-house civilisation, and she detests me for detesting it,
because she thinks it the highest in the world. She'd like Gardencourt a
great deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I find it almost
too much of one! We shall never get on together therefore, and there's
no use trying."
Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of her,
but she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two after
Miss Stackpole's arrival she had made some invidious reflexions on
American hotels, which excited a vein of counter-argument on the part
of the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the exercise of her
profession had acquainted herself, in the western world, with every form
of caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels
were the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a renewed
struggle with them, recorded a conviction that they were the worst.
Ralph, with his experimental geniality, suggested, by way of healing
the breach, that the truth lay between the two extremes and that the
establishments in question ought to be described as fair middling. This
contribution to the discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with
scorn. Middling indeed! If they were not the best in the world they were
the worst, but there was nothing middling about an American hotel.
"We judge from different points of view, evidently," said Mrs. Touchett.
"I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a
'party.'"
"I don't know what you mean," Henrietta replied. "I like to be treated
as an American lady."
"Poor American ladies!" cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. "They're the
slaves of slaves."
"They're the companions of freemen," Henrietta retorted.
"They're the companions of their servants--the Irish chambermaid and the
negro waiter. They share their work."
"Do you call the domestics in an American household 'slaves'?" Miss
Stackpole enquired. "If that's the way you desire to treat them, no
wonder you don't like America."
"If you've not good servants you're miserable," Mrs. Touchett serenely
said. "They're very bad in America, but I've five perfect ones in
Florence."
"I don't see what you want with five," Henrietta couldn't help
observing. "I don't think I should like to see five persons surrounding
me in that menial position."
"I like them in that position better than in some others," proclaimed
Mrs. Touchett with much meaning.
"Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?" her husband
asked.
"I don't think I should: you wouldn't at all have the tenue."
"The companions of freemen--I like that, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph.
"It's a beautiful description."
"When I said freemen I didn't mean you, sir!"
And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. Miss
Stackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was something
treasonable in Mrs. Touchett's appreciation of a class which she
privately judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It was
perhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she suffered
some days to elapse before she took occasion to say to Isabel: "My dear
friend, I wonder if you're growing faithless."
"Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?"
"No, that would be a great pain; but it's not that."
"Faithless to my country then?"
"Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool I
said I had something particular to tell you. You've never asked me what
it is. Is it because you've suspected?"
"Suspected what? As a rule I don't think I suspect," said Isabel.
"I remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I had
forgotten it. What have you to tell me?"
Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it.
"You don't ask that right--as if you thought it important. You're
changed--you're thinking of other things."
"Tell me what you mean, and I'll think of that."
"Will you really think of it? That's what I wish to be sure of."
"I've not much control of my thoughts, but I'll do my best," said
Isabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which tried
Isabel's patience, so that our heroine added at last: "Do you mean that
you're going to be married?"
"Not till I've seen Europe!" said Miss Stackpole. "What are you laughing
at?" she went on. "What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came out in the
steamer with me."
"Ah!" Isabel responded.
"You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has come
after you."
"Did he tell you so?"
"No, he told me nothing; that's how I knew it," said Henrietta cleverly.
"He said very little about you, but I spoke of you a good deal."
Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood's name she had turned a
little pale. "I'm very sorry you did that," she observed at last.
"It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could have
talked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so intense; he
drank it all in."
"What did you say about me?" Isabel asked.
"I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know."
"I'm very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he oughtn't
to be encouraged."
"He's dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now, and his
earnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look so
handsome."
"He's very simple-minded," said Isabel. "And he's not so ugly."
"There's nothing so simplifying as a grand passion."
"It's not a grand passion; I'm very sure it's not that."
"You don't say that as if you were sure."
Isabel gave rather a cold smile. "I shall say it better to Mr. Goodwood
himself."
"He'll soon give you a chance," said Henrietta. Isabel offered no
answer to this assertion, which her companion made with an air of great
confidence. "He'll find you changed," the latter pursued. "You've been
affected by your new surroundings."
"Very likely. I'm affected by everything."
"By everything but Mr. Goodwood!" Miss Stackpole exclaimed with a
slightly harsh hilarity.
Isabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said: "Did he ask
you to speak to me?"
"Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it--and his handshake, when he
bade me good-bye."
"Thank you for doing so." And Isabel turned away.
"Yes, you're changed; you've got new ideas over here," her friend
continued.
"I hope so," said Isabel; "one should get as many new ideas as
possible."
"Yes; but they shouldn't interfere with the old ones when the old ones
have been the right ones."
Isabel turned about again. "If you mean that I had any idea with regard
to Mr. Goodwood--!" But she faltered before her friend's implacable
glitter.
"My dear child, you certainly encouraged him."
Isabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead of which,
however, she presently answered: "It's very true. I did encourage him."
And then she asked if her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwood
what he intended to do. It was a concession to her curiosity, for she
disliked discussing the subject and found Henrietta wanting in delicacy.
"I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing," Miss Stackpole
answered. "But I don't believe that; he's not a man to do nothing. He
is a man of high, bold action. Whatever happens to him he'll always do
something, and whatever he does will always be right."
"I quite believe that." Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy, but it
touched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration.
"Ah, you do care for him!" her visitor rang out.
"Whatever he does will always be right," Isabel repeated. "When a man's
of that infallible mould what does it matter to him what one feels?"
"It may not matter to him, but it matters to one's self."
"Ah, what it matters to me--that's not what we're discussing," said
Isabel with a cold smile.
This time her companion was grave. "Well, I don't care; you have
changed. You're not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr.
Goodwood will see it. I expect him here any day."
"I hope he'll hate me then," said Isabel.
"I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable of it."
To this observation our heroine made no return; she was absorbed in the
alarm given her by Henrietta's intimation that Caspar Goodwood would
present himself at Gardencourt. She pretended to herself, however,
that she thought the event impossible, and, later, she communicated her
disbelief to her friend. For the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless,
she stood prepared to hear the young man's name announced. The feeling
pressed upon her; it made the air sultry, as if there were to be a
change of weather; and the weather, socially speaking, had been so
agreeable during Isabel's stay at Gardencourt that any change would be
for the worse. Her suspense indeed was dissipated the second day. She
had walked into the park in company with the sociable Bunchie, and
after strolling about for some time, in a manner at once listless and
restless, had seated herself on a garden-bench, within sight of the
house, beneath a spreading beech, where, in a white dress ornamented
with black ribbons, she formed among the flickering shadows a graceful
and harmonious image. She entertained herself for some moments with
talking to the little terrier, as to whom the proposal of an ownership
divided with her cousin had been applied as impartially as possible--as
impartially as Bunchie's own somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathies
would allow. But she was notified for the first time, on this occasion,
of the finite character of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had been
mainly struck with its extent. It seemed to her at last that she would
do well to take a book; formerly, when heavy-hearted, she had been
able, with the help of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat
of consciousness to the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not to
be denied, literature had seemed a fading light, and even after she had
reminded herself that her uncle's library was provided with a complete
set of those authors which no gentleman's collection should be without,
she sat motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the cool green
turf of the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by the
arrival of a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore the
London postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew--that came into her
vision, already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer's voice
or his face. This document proved short and may be given entire.
MY DEAR MISS ARCHER--I don't know whether you will have heard of my
coming to England, but even if you have not it will scarcely be a
surprise to you. You will remember that when you gave me my dismissal at
Albany, three months ago, I did not accept it. I protested against it.
You in fact appeared to accept my protest and to admit that I had the
right on my side. I had come to see you with the hope that you would
let me bring you over to my conviction; my reasons for entertaining this
hope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I found you changed,
and you were able to give me no reason for the change. You admitted that
you were unreasonable, and it was the only concession you would make;
but it was a very cheap one, because that's not your character. No, you
are not, and you never will be, arbitrary or capricious. Therefore it is
that I believe you will let me see you again. You told me that I'm not
disagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I don't see why that should
be. I shall always think of you; I shall never think of any one else.
I came to England simply because you are here; I couldn't stay at home
after you had gone: I hated the country because you were not in it. If
I like this country at present it is only because it holds you. I have
been to England before, but have never enjoyed it much. May I not come
and see you for half an hour? This at present is the dearest wish of
yours faithfully,
CASPAR GOODWOOD.
Isabel read this missive with such deep attention that she had not
perceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however,
as she mechanically folded it she saw Lord Warburton standing before
her.
| Henrietta gets along well at Gardencourt mostly, except that she begins to mistrust Mrs. Touchett. Mrs. Touchett thinks that Henrietta is both a bore and an adventuress. She detests her manners. Mrs. Touchett tells Henrietta: "We judge from different points of view, evidently. I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a 'party'". In a private moment, Henrietta tells Isabel that Caspar Goodwood came to see her for news about Isabel. Isabel thinks he is simpleminded, and not ugly. Henrietta tells Isabel that Caspar Goodwood is dying for encouragement, but she also notes that Isabel is affected by everything but Mr. Goodwood. She tells Isabel that she shouldn't let her new ideas affect her old ones. Basically Henrietta seems to hope that Isabel will marry Mr. Goodwood, and reminds Isabel that she has already encouraged him that he will be successful if he proposes. Isabel recognizes that Mr. Goodwood is a man of action, the type to "do something". Henrietta tells Isabel that Mr. Goodwood will arrive in a few days. Isabel is alarmed by the news. For the next few days she is in a state of ominous foreboding. One day in the garden she receives a letter from Mr. Goodwood. In the letter, Caspar Goodwood reminds Isabel that she had "dismissed" him three months earlier when they last saw each other, but that he had refused to accept this, believing her character was not as arbitrary as she was presenting it as. He has arrived in England because she is there. He asks to come see her in half an hour. As Isabel is reading the letter, Lord Warburton appears | summary |
He took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words even when
Miss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note most strongly. He
bethought himself that persons, in her view, were simple and homogeneous
organisms, and that he, for his own part, was too perverted a
representative of the nature of man to have a right to deal with her
in strict reciprocity. He carried out his resolve with a great deal of
tact, and the young lady found in renewed contact with him no obstacle
to the exercise of her genius for unshrinking enquiry, the general
application of her confidence. Her situation at Gardencourt therefore,
appreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel and full of appreciation
herself of that free play of intelligence which, to her sense, rendered
Isabel's character a sister-spirit, and of the easy venerableness of Mr.
Touchett, whose noble tone, as she said, met with her full approval--her
situation at Gardencourt would have been perfectly comfortable had she
not conceived an irresistible mistrust of the little lady for whom she
had at first supposed herself obliged to "allow" as mistress of the
house. She presently discovered, in truth, that this obligation was of
the lightest and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpole
behaved. Mrs. Touchett had defined her to Isabel as both an adventuress
and a bore--adventuresses usually giving one more of a thrill; she had
expressed some surprise at her niece's having selected such a friend,
yet had immediately added that she knew Isabel's friends were her own
affair and that she had never undertaken to like them all or to restrict
the girl to those she liked.
"If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you'd have a very
small society," Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; "and I don't think I
like any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. When
it comes to recommending it's a serious affair. I don't like Miss
Stackpole--everything about her displeases me; she talks so much
too loud and looks at one as if one wanted to look at her--which one
doesn't. I'm sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-house, and I
detest the manners and the liberties of such places. If you ask me if I
prefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad, I'll tell
you that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows I detest
boarding-house civilisation, and she detests me for detesting it,
because she thinks it the highest in the world. She'd like Gardencourt a
great deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I find it almost
too much of one! We shall never get on together therefore, and there's
no use trying."
Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of her,
but she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two after
Miss Stackpole's arrival she had made some invidious reflexions on
American hotels, which excited a vein of counter-argument on the part
of the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the exercise of her
profession had acquainted herself, in the western world, with every form
of caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels
were the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a renewed
struggle with them, recorded a conviction that they were the worst.
Ralph, with his experimental geniality, suggested, by way of healing
the breach, that the truth lay between the two extremes and that the
establishments in question ought to be described as fair middling. This
contribution to the discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with
scorn. Middling indeed! If they were not the best in the world they were
the worst, but there was nothing middling about an American hotel.
"We judge from different points of view, evidently," said Mrs. Touchett.
"I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a
'party.'"
"I don't know what you mean," Henrietta replied. "I like to be treated
as an American lady."
"Poor American ladies!" cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. "They're the
slaves of slaves."
"They're the companions of freemen," Henrietta retorted.
"They're the companions of their servants--the Irish chambermaid and the
negro waiter. They share their work."
"Do you call the domestics in an American household 'slaves'?" Miss
Stackpole enquired. "If that's the way you desire to treat them, no
wonder you don't like America."
"If you've not good servants you're miserable," Mrs. Touchett serenely
said. "They're very bad in America, but I've five perfect ones in
Florence."
"I don't see what you want with five," Henrietta couldn't help
observing. "I don't think I should like to see five persons surrounding
me in that menial position."
"I like them in that position better than in some others," proclaimed
Mrs. Touchett with much meaning.
"Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?" her husband
asked.
"I don't think I should: you wouldn't at all have the tenue."
"The companions of freemen--I like that, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph.
"It's a beautiful description."
"When I said freemen I didn't mean you, sir!"
And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. Miss
Stackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was something
treasonable in Mrs. Touchett's appreciation of a class which she
privately judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It was
perhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she suffered
some days to elapse before she took occasion to say to Isabel: "My dear
friend, I wonder if you're growing faithless."
"Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?"
"No, that would be a great pain; but it's not that."
"Faithless to my country then?"
"Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool I
said I had something particular to tell you. You've never asked me what
it is. Is it because you've suspected?"
"Suspected what? As a rule I don't think I suspect," said Isabel.
"I remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I had
forgotten it. What have you to tell me?"
Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it.
"You don't ask that right--as if you thought it important. You're
changed--you're thinking of other things."
"Tell me what you mean, and I'll think of that."
"Will you really think of it? That's what I wish to be sure of."
"I've not much control of my thoughts, but I'll do my best," said
Isabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which tried
Isabel's patience, so that our heroine added at last: "Do you mean that
you're going to be married?"
"Not till I've seen Europe!" said Miss Stackpole. "What are you laughing
at?" she went on. "What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came out in the
steamer with me."
"Ah!" Isabel responded.
"You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has come
after you."
"Did he tell you so?"
"No, he told me nothing; that's how I knew it," said Henrietta cleverly.
"He said very little about you, but I spoke of you a good deal."
Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood's name she had turned a
little pale. "I'm very sorry you did that," she observed at last.
"It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could have
talked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so intense; he
drank it all in."
"What did you say about me?" Isabel asked.
"I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know."
"I'm very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he oughtn't
to be encouraged."
"He's dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now, and his
earnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look so
handsome."
"He's very simple-minded," said Isabel. "And he's not so ugly."
"There's nothing so simplifying as a grand passion."
"It's not a grand passion; I'm very sure it's not that."
"You don't say that as if you were sure."
Isabel gave rather a cold smile. "I shall say it better to Mr. Goodwood
himself."
"He'll soon give you a chance," said Henrietta. Isabel offered no
answer to this assertion, which her companion made with an air of great
confidence. "He'll find you changed," the latter pursued. "You've been
affected by your new surroundings."
"Very likely. I'm affected by everything."
"By everything but Mr. Goodwood!" Miss Stackpole exclaimed with a
slightly harsh hilarity.
Isabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said: "Did he ask
you to speak to me?"
"Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it--and his handshake, when he
bade me good-bye."
"Thank you for doing so." And Isabel turned away.
"Yes, you're changed; you've got new ideas over here," her friend
continued.
"I hope so," said Isabel; "one should get as many new ideas as
possible."
"Yes; but they shouldn't interfere with the old ones when the old ones
have been the right ones."
Isabel turned about again. "If you mean that I had any idea with regard
to Mr. Goodwood--!" But she faltered before her friend's implacable
glitter.
"My dear child, you certainly encouraged him."
Isabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead of which,
however, she presently answered: "It's very true. I did encourage him."
And then she asked if her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwood
what he intended to do. It was a concession to her curiosity, for she
disliked discussing the subject and found Henrietta wanting in delicacy.
"I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing," Miss Stackpole
answered. "But I don't believe that; he's not a man to do nothing. He
is a man of high, bold action. Whatever happens to him he'll always do
something, and whatever he does will always be right."
"I quite believe that." Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy, but it
touched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration.
"Ah, you do care for him!" her visitor rang out.
"Whatever he does will always be right," Isabel repeated. "When a man's
of that infallible mould what does it matter to him what one feels?"
"It may not matter to him, but it matters to one's self."
"Ah, what it matters to me--that's not what we're discussing," said
Isabel with a cold smile.
This time her companion was grave. "Well, I don't care; you have
changed. You're not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr.
Goodwood will see it. I expect him here any day."
"I hope he'll hate me then," said Isabel.
"I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable of it."
To this observation our heroine made no return; she was absorbed in the
alarm given her by Henrietta's intimation that Caspar Goodwood would
present himself at Gardencourt. She pretended to herself, however,
that she thought the event impossible, and, later, she communicated her
disbelief to her friend. For the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless,
she stood prepared to hear the young man's name announced. The feeling
pressed upon her; it made the air sultry, as if there were to be a
change of weather; and the weather, socially speaking, had been so
agreeable during Isabel's stay at Gardencourt that any change would be
for the worse. Her suspense indeed was dissipated the second day. She
had walked into the park in company with the sociable Bunchie, and
after strolling about for some time, in a manner at once listless and
restless, had seated herself on a garden-bench, within sight of the
house, beneath a spreading beech, where, in a white dress ornamented
with black ribbons, she formed among the flickering shadows a graceful
and harmonious image. She entertained herself for some moments with
talking to the little terrier, as to whom the proposal of an ownership
divided with her cousin had been applied as impartially as possible--as
impartially as Bunchie's own somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathies
would allow. But she was notified for the first time, on this occasion,
of the finite character of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had been
mainly struck with its extent. It seemed to her at last that she would
do well to take a book; formerly, when heavy-hearted, she had been
able, with the help of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat
of consciousness to the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not to
be denied, literature had seemed a fading light, and even after she had
reminded herself that her uncle's library was provided with a complete
set of those authors which no gentleman's collection should be without,
she sat motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the cool green
turf of the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by the
arrival of a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore the
London postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew--that came into her
vision, already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer's voice
or his face. This document proved short and may be given entire.
MY DEAR MISS ARCHER--I don't know whether you will have heard of my
coming to England, but even if you have not it will scarcely be a
surprise to you. You will remember that when you gave me my dismissal at
Albany, three months ago, I did not accept it. I protested against it.
You in fact appeared to accept my protest and to admit that I had the
right on my side. I had come to see you with the hope that you would
let me bring you over to my conviction; my reasons for entertaining this
hope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I found you changed,
and you were able to give me no reason for the change. You admitted that
you were unreasonable, and it was the only concession you would make;
but it was a very cheap one, because that's not your character. No, you
are not, and you never will be, arbitrary or capricious. Therefore it is
that I believe you will let me see you again. You told me that I'm not
disagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I don't see why that should
be. I shall always think of you; I shall never think of any one else.
I came to England simply because you are here; I couldn't stay at home
after you had gone: I hated the country because you were not in it. If
I like this country at present it is only because it holds you. I have
been to England before, but have never enjoyed it much. May I not come
and see you for half an hour? This at present is the dearest wish of
yours faithfully,
CASPAR GOODWOOD.
Isabel read this missive with such deep attention that she had not
perceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however,
as she mechanically folded it she saw Lord Warburton standing before
her.
| Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions. | analysis |
She put the letter into her pocket and offered her visitor a smile of
welcome, exhibiting no trace of discomposure and half surprised at her
coolness.
"They told me you were out here," said Lord Warburton; "and as there
was no one in the drawing-room and it's really you that I wish to see, I
came out with no more ado."
Isabel had got up; she felt a wish, for the moment, that he should not
sit down beside her. "I was just going indoors."
"Please don't do that; it's much jollier here; I've ridden over from
Lockleigh; it's a lovely day." His smile was peculiarly friendly
and pleasing, and his whole person seemed to emit that radiance of
good-feeling and good fare which had formed the charm of the girl's
first impression of him. It surrounded him like a zone of fine June
weather.
"We'll walk about a little then," said Isabel, who could not divest
herself of the sense of an intention on the part of her visitor and who
wished both to elude the intention and to satisfy her curiosity about
it. It had flashed upon her vision once before, and it had given her on
that occasion, as we know, a certain alarm. This alarm was composed of
several elements, not all of which were disagreeable; she had indeed
spent some days in analysing them and had succeeded in separating the
pleasant part of the idea of Lord Warburton's "making up" to her from
the painful. It may appear to some readers that the young lady was both
precipitate and unduly fastidious; but the latter of these facts, if
the charge be true, may serve to exonerate her from the discredit of
the former. She was not eager to convince herself that a territorial
magnate, as she had heard Lord Warburton called, was smitten with her
charms; the fact of a declaration from such a source carrying with it
really more questions than it would answer. She had received a strong
impression of his being a "personage," and she had occupied herself in
examining the image so conveyed. At the risk of adding to the evidence
of her self-sufficiency it must be said that there had been moments
when this possibility of admiration by a personage represented to her an
aggression almost to the degree of an affront, quite to the degree of
an inconvenience. She had never yet known a personage; there had been no
personages, in this sense, in her life; there were probably none such at
all in her native land. When she had thought of individual eminence she
had thought of it on the basis of character and wit--of what one
might like in a gentleman's mind and in his talk. She herself was a
character--she couldn't help being aware of that; and hitherto her
visions of a completed consciousness had concerned themselves largely
with moral images--things as to which the question would be whether they
pleased her sublime soul. Lord Warburton loomed up before her, largely
and brightly, as a collection of attributes and powers which were not to
be measured by this simple rule, but which demanded a different sort of
appreciation--an appreciation that the girl, with her habit of judging
quickly and freely, felt she lacked patience to bestow. He appeared to
demand of her something that no one else, as it were, had presumed to
do. What she felt was that a territorial, a political, a social magnate
had conceived the design of drawing her into the system in which he
rather invidiously lived and moved. A certain instinct, not imperious,
but persuasive, told her to resist--murmured to her that virtually
she had a system and an orbit of her own. It told her other things
besides--things which both contradicted and confirmed each other; that
a girl might do much worse than trust herself to such a man and that it
would be very interesting to see something of his system from his own
point of view; that on the other hand, however, there was evidently a
great deal of it which she should regard only as a complication of every
hour, and that even in the whole there was something stiff and stupid
which would make it a burden. Furthermore there was a young man lately
come from America who had no system at all, but who had a character
of which it was useless for her to try to persuade herself that the
impression on her mind had been light. The letter she carried in
her pocket all sufficiently reminded her of the contrary. Smile not,
however, I venture to repeat, at this simple young woman from Albany who
debated whether she should accept an English peer before he had offered
himself and who was disposed to believe that on the whole she could do
better. She was a person of great good faith, and if there was a great
deal of folly in her wisdom those who judge her severely may have the
satisfaction of finding that, later, she became consistently wise only
at the cost of an amount of folly which will constitute almost a direct
appeal to charity.
Lord Warburton seemed quite ready to walk, to sit or to do anything that
Isabel should propose, and he gave her this assurance with his usual air
of being particularly pleased to exercise a social virtue. But he was,
nevertheless, not in command of his emotions, and as he strolled beside
her for a moment, in silence, looking at her without letting her know
it, there was something embarrassed in his glance and his misdirected
laughter. Yes, assuredly--as we have touched on the point, we may return
to it for a moment again--the English are the most romantic people in
the world and Lord Warburton was about to give an example of it. He was
about to take a step which would astonish all his friends and displease
a great many of them, and which had superficially nothing to recommend
it. The young lady who trod the turf beside him had come from a queer
country across the sea which he knew a good deal about; her antecedents,
her associations were very vague to his mind except in so far as they
were generic, and in this sense they showed as distinct and unimportant.
Miss Archer had neither a fortune nor the sort of beauty that justifies
a man to the multitude, and he calculated that he had spent about
twenty-six hours in her company. He had summed up all this--the
perversity of the impulse, which had declined to avail itself of the
most liberal opportunities to subside, and the judgement of mankind, as
exemplified particularly in the more quickly-judging half of it: he had
looked these things well in the face and then had dismissed them from
his thoughts. He cared no more for them than for the rosebud in his
buttonhole. It is the good fortune of a man who for the greater part of
a lifetime has abstained without effort from making himself disagreeable
to his friends, that when the need comes for such a course it is not
discredited by irritating associations.
"I hope you had a pleasant ride," said Isabel, who observed her
companion's hesitancy.
"It would have been pleasant if for nothing else than that it brought me
here."
"Are you so fond of Gardencourt?" the girl asked, more and more sure
that he meant to make some appeal to her; wishing not to challenge him
if he hesitated, and yet to keep all the quietness of her reason if he
proceeded. It suddenly came upon her that her situation was one which a
few weeks ago she would have deemed deeply romantic: the park of an old
English country-house, with the foreground embellished by a "great" (as
she supposed) nobleman in the act of making love to a young lady who, on
careful inspection, should be found to present remarkable analogies with
herself. But if she was now the heroine of the situation she succeeded
scarcely the less in looking at it from the outside.
"I care nothing for Gardencourt," said her companion. "I care only for
you."
"You've known me too short a time to have a right to say that, and I
can't believe you're serious."
These words of Isabel's were not perfectly sincere, for she had no doubt
whatever that he himself was. They were simply a tribute to the fact, of
which she was perfectly aware, that those he had just uttered would
have excited surprise on the part of a vulgar world. And, moreover, if
anything beside the sense she had already acquired that Lord Warburton
was not a loose thinker had been needed to convince her, the tone in
which he replied would quite have served the purpose.
"One's right in such a matter is not measured by the time, Miss Archer;
it's measured by the feeling itself. If I were to wait three months it
would make no difference; I shall not be more sure of what I mean than I
am to-day. Of course I've seen you very little, but my impression dates
from the very first hour we met. I lost no time, I fell in love with you
then. It was at first sight, as the novels say; I know now that's not a
fancy-phrase, and I shall think better of novels for evermore. Those two
days I spent here settled it; I don't know whether you suspected I was
doing so, but I paid-mentally speaking I mean--the greatest possible
attention to you. Nothing you said, nothing you did, was lost upon
me. When you came to Lockleigh the other day--or rather when you went
away--I was perfectly sure. Nevertheless I made up my mind to think it
over and to question myself narrowly. I've done so; all these days I've
done nothing else. I don't make mistakes about such things; I'm a very
judicious animal. I don't go off easily, but when I'm touched, it's
for life. It's for life, Miss Archer, it's for life," Lord Warburton
repeated in the kindest, tenderest, pleasantest voice Isabel had ever
heard, and looking at her with eyes charged with the light of a passion
that had sifted itself clear of the baser parts of emotion--the heat,
the violence, the unreason--and that burned as steadily as a lamp in a
windless place.
By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and more slowly,
and at last they stopped and he took her hand. "Ah, Lord Warburton, how
little you know me!" Isabel said very gently. Gently too she drew her
hand away.
"Don't taunt me with that; that I don't know you better makes me unhappy
enough already; it's all my loss. But that's what I want, and it seems
to me I'm taking the best way. If you'll be my wife, then I shall know
you, and when I tell you all the good I think of you you'll not be able
to say it's from ignorance."
"If you know me little I know you even less," said Isabel.
"You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on acquaintance? Ah,
of course that's very possible. But think, to speak to you as I do,
how determined I must be to try and give satisfaction! You do like me
rather, don't you?"
"I like you very much, Lord Warburton," she answered; and at this moment
she liked him immensely.
"I thank you for saying that; it shows you don't regard me as a
stranger. I really believe I've filled all the other relations of life
very creditably, and I don't see why I shouldn't fill this one--in which
I offer myself to you--seeing that I care so much more about it. Ask the
people who know me well; I've friends who'll speak for me."
"I don't need the recommendation of your friends," said Isabel.
"Ah now, that's delightful of you. You believe in me yourself."
"Completely," Isabel declared. She quite glowed there, inwardly, with
the pleasure of feeling she did.
The light in her companion's eyes turned into a smile, and he gave a
long exhalation of joy. "If you're mistaken, Miss Archer, let me lose
all I possess!"
She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he was rich, and,
on the instant, felt sure that he didn't. He was thinking that, as he
would have said himself; and indeed he might safely leave it to the
memory of any interlocutor, especially of one to whom he was offering
his hand. Isabel had prayed that she might not be agitated, and her mind
was tranquil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what it
was best she should say, to indulge in this incidental criticism. What
she should say, had she asked herself? Her foremost wish was to say
something if possible not less kind than what he had said to her. His
words had carried perfect conviction with them; she felt she did, all so
mysteriously, matter to him. "I thank you more than I can say for your
offer," she returned at last. "It does me great honour."
"Ah, don't say that!" he broke out. "I was afraid you'd say something
like that. I don't see what you've to do with that sort of thing. I
don't see why you should thank me--it's I who ought to thank you for
listening to me: a man you know so little coming down on you with such
a thumper! Of course it's a great question; I must tell you that
I'd rather ask it than have it to answer myself. But the way you've
listened--or at least your having listened at all--gives me some hope."
"Don't hope too much," Isabel said.
"Oh Miss Archer!" her companion murmured, smiling again, in his
seriousness, as if such a warning might perhaps be taken but as the play
of high spirits, the exuberance of elation.
"Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not to hope at
all?" Isabel asked.
"Surprised? I don't know what you mean by surprise. It wouldn't be that;
it would be a feeling very much worse."
Isabel walked on again; she was silent for some minutes. "I'm very sure
that, highly as I already think of you, my opinion of you, if I should
know you well, would only rise. But I'm by no means sure that you
wouldn't be disappointed. And I say that not in the least out of
conventional modesty; it's perfectly sincere."
"I'm willing to risk it, Miss Archer," her companion replied.
"It's a great question, as you say. It's a very difficult question."
"I don't expect you of course to answer it outright. Think it over as
long as may be necessary. If I can gain by waiting I'll gladly wait a
long time. Only remember that in the end my dearest happiness depends on
your answer."
"I should be very sorry to keep you in suspense," said Isabel.
"Oh, don't mind. I'd much rather have a good answer six months hence
than a bad one to-day."
"But it's very probable that even six months hence I shouldn't be able
to give you one that you'd think good."
"Why not, since you really like me?"
"Ah, you must never doubt that," said Isabel.
"Well then, I don't see what more you ask!"
"It's not what I ask; it's what I can give. I don't think I should suit
you; I really don't think I should."
"You needn't worry about that. That's my affair. You needn't be a better
royalist than the king."
"It's not only that," said Isabel; "but I'm not sure I wish to marry any
one."
"Very likely you don't. I've no doubt a great many women begin that
way," said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not in the least
believe in the axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety by uttering. "But
they're frequently persuaded."
"Ah, that's because they want to be!" And Isabel lightly laughed. Her
suitor's countenance fell, and he looked at her for a while in silence.
"I'm afraid it's my being an Englishman that makes you hesitate," he
said presently. "I know your uncle thinks you ought to marry in your own
country."
Isabel listened to this assertion with some interest; it had never
occurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discuss her matrimonial
prospects with Lord Warburton. "Has he told you that?"
"I remember his making the remark. He spoke perhaps of Americans
generally."
"He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in England."
Isabel spoke in a manner that might have seemed a little perverse, but
which expressed both her constant perception of her uncle's outward
felicity and her general disposition to elude any obligation to take a
restricted view.
It gave her companion hope, and he immediately cried with warmth: "Ah,
my dear Miss Archer, old England's a very good sort of country, you
know! And it will be still better when we've furbished it up a little."
"Oh, don't furbish it, Lord Warburton--, leave it alone. I like it this
way."
"Well then, if you like it, I'm more and more unable to see your
objection to what I propose."
"I'm afraid I can't make you understand."
"You ought at least to try. I've a fair intelligence. Are you
afraid--afraid of the climate? We can easily live elsewhere, you know.
You can pick out your climate, the whole world over."
These words were uttered with a breadth of candour that was like the
embrace of strong arms--that was like the fragrance straight in her
face, and by his clean, breathing lips, of she knew not what strange
gardens, what charged airs. She would have given her little finger at
that moment to feel strongly and simply the impulse to answer: "Lord
Warburton, it's impossible for me to do better in this wonderful world,
I think, than commit myself, very gratefully, to your loyalty." But
though she was lost in admiration of her opportunity she managed to move
back into the deepest shade of it, even as some wild, caught creature in
a vast cage. The "splendid" security so offered her was not the greatest
she could conceive. What she finally bethought herself of saying was
something very different--something that deferred the need of really
facing her crisis. "Don't think me unkind if I ask you to say no more
about this to-day."
"Certainly, certainly!" her companion cried. "I wouldn't bore you for
the world."
"You've given me a great deal to think about, and I promise you to do it
justice."
"That's all I ask of you, of course--and that you'll remember how
absolutely my happiness is in your hands."
Isabel listened with extreme respect to this admonition, but she said
after a minute: "I must tell you that what I shall think about is some
way of letting you know that what you ask is impossible--letting you
know it without making you miserable."
"There's no way to do that, Miss Archer. I won't say that if you refuse
me you'll kill me; I shall not die of it. But I shall do worse; I shall
live to no purpose."
"You'll live to marry a better woman than I."
"Don't say that, please," said Lord Warburton very gravely. "That's fair
to neither of us."
"To marry a worse one then."
"If there are better women than you I prefer the bad ones. That's all I
can say," he went on with the same earnestness. "There's no accounting
for tastes."
His gravity made her feel equally grave, and she showed it by again
requesting him to drop the subject for the present. "I'll speak to you
myself--very soon. Perhaps I shall write to you."
"At your convenience, yes," he replied. "Whatever time you take, it must
seem to me long, and I suppose I must make the best of that."
"I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect my mind a
little."
He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with his
hands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop. "Do
you know I'm very much afraid of it--of that remarkable mind of yours?"
Our heroine's biographer can scarcely tell why, but the question made
her start and brought a conscious blush to her cheek. She returned his
look a moment, and then with a note in her voice that might almost have
appealed to his compassion, "So am I, my lord!" she oddly exclaimed.
His compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed of the faculty
of pity was needed at home. "Ah! be merciful, be merciful," he murmured.
"I think you had better go," said Isabel. "I'll write to you."
"Very good; but whatever you write I'll come and see you, you know." And
then he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on the observant countenance of
Bunchie, who had the air of having understood all that had been said
and of pretending to carry off the indiscretion by a simulated fit of
curiosity as to the roots of an ancient oak. "There's one thing more,"
he went on. "You know, if you don't like Lockleigh--if you think it's
damp or anything of that sort--you need never go within fifty miles of
it. It's not damp, by the way; I've had the house thoroughly examined;
it's perfectly safe and right. But if you shouldn't fancy it you needn't
dream of living in it. There's no difficulty whatever about that; there
are plenty of houses. I thought I'd just mention it; some people don't
like a moat, you know. Good-bye."
"I adore a moat," said Isabel. "Good-bye."
He held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment--a moment long
enough for him to bend his handsome bared head and kiss it. Then, still
agitating, in his mastered emotion, his implement of the chase, he
walked rapidly away. He was evidently much upset.
Isabel herself was upset, but she had not been affected as she would
have imagined. What she felt was not a great responsibility, a great
difficulty of choice; it appeared to her there had been no choice in the
question. She couldn't marry Lord Warburton; the idea failed to support
any enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that
she had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining.
She must write this to him, she must convince him, and that duty was
comparatively simple. But what disturbed her, in the sense that it
struck her with wonderment, was this very fact that it cost her so
little to refuse a magnificent "chance." With whatever qualifications
one would, Lord Warburton had offered her a great opportunity; the
situation might have discomforts, might contain oppressive, might
contain narrowing elements, might prove really but a stupefying anodyne;
but she did her sex no injustice in believing that nineteen women out of
twenty would have accommodated themselves to it without a pang. Why then
upon her also should it not irresistibly impose itself? Who was she,
what was she, that she should hold herself superior? What view of
life, what design upon fate, what conception of happiness, had she that
pretended to be larger than these large these fabulous occasions? If she
wouldn't do such a thing as that then she must do great things, she must
do something greater. Poor Isabel found ground to remind herself from
time to time that she must not be too proud, and nothing could be
more sincere than her prayer to be delivered from such a danger: the
isolation and loneliness of pride had for her mind the horror of a
desert place. If it had been pride that interfered with her accepting
Lord Warburton such a betise was singularly misplaced; and she was so
conscious of liking him that she ventured to assure herself it was the
very softness, and the fine intelligence, of sympathy. She liked him too
much to marry him, that was the truth; something assured her there was
a fallacy somewhere in the glowing logic of the proposition--as he saw
it--even though she mightn't put her very finest finger-point on it;
and to inflict upon a man who offered so much a wife with a tendency to
criticise would be a peculiarly discreditable act. She had promised him
she would consider his question, and when, after he had left her, she
wandered back to the bench where he had found her and lost herself in
meditation, it might have seemed that she was keeping her vow. But
this was not the case; she was wondering if she were not a cold, hard,
priggish person, and, on her at last getting up and going rather
quickly back to the house, felt, as she had said to her friend, really
frightened at herself.
| Isabel is aware that Lord Warburton has arrived with some intention, and she feels curious about this intention at the same time she wishes to elude this intention. Although the narrator does not tell us so, it is obvious that Lord Warburton is about to propose marriage to her. She perceives Lord Warburton as "looming up before her" and he appears to demand something of her, as if he is about to draw her into the orbit of the system in which he lives. Her instinct tells her to resist though, especially because she has a system of her own. She also notes that Caspar Goodwood is a man with no system at all, even though he has certain definite intentions with her. Meanwhile, Lord Warburton seems somewhat embarrassed. He was about to do something that would shock all his countrymen, even though he has only been in Isabel's company for 26 hours. Lord Warburton tells her he's in love with her, and that he will be forever. Isabel claims that he does not know her at all. He tells her if she is his wife, he will come to know her. She tells him that she believes in him, and does not need the recommendation of his friends to do so. But then, she thanks him for his offer. He tells her that this gives him some hope that she will come to accept him eventually. She tells him not to hope. She is sure that her opinion of him can only rise, but that his opinion of her will only lower with time. Isabel tells him she is refusing him not because she dislikes him, but because it's about what she herself can give to the marriage. Further, she is not sure that she ever wishes to marry anyone. Isabel feels that she would give her little finger to have the impulse to accept Lord Warburton's proposal; she wishes she could believe it was the best possible opportunity she could have. However, she feels like a "wild, caught creature in a vast cage" when presented with this opportunity. This opportunity was not the greatest she could conceive of. Isabel tells him finally that he ought not to bring up the subject today again, and that she only needs time to think of some way to let him know that what he asks is impossible. Lord Warburton tells her he will live without purpose if she rejects him, and she protests that he will marry a better woman than she. She tells him that she only wants to collect her mind a little, and he responds that he is afraid of her "remarkable" mind. She responds, "So am I, my lord. As he leaves, Isabel feels that there had been no great difficult choice, as she simply could not have married him. The idea failed to support any enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that she had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining" | summary |
She put the letter into her pocket and offered her visitor a smile of
welcome, exhibiting no trace of discomposure and half surprised at her
coolness.
"They told me you were out here," said Lord Warburton; "and as there
was no one in the drawing-room and it's really you that I wish to see, I
came out with no more ado."
Isabel had got up; she felt a wish, for the moment, that he should not
sit down beside her. "I was just going indoors."
"Please don't do that; it's much jollier here; I've ridden over from
Lockleigh; it's a lovely day." His smile was peculiarly friendly
and pleasing, and his whole person seemed to emit that radiance of
good-feeling and good fare which had formed the charm of the girl's
first impression of him. It surrounded him like a zone of fine June
weather.
"We'll walk about a little then," said Isabel, who could not divest
herself of the sense of an intention on the part of her visitor and who
wished both to elude the intention and to satisfy her curiosity about
it. It had flashed upon her vision once before, and it had given her on
that occasion, as we know, a certain alarm. This alarm was composed of
several elements, not all of which were disagreeable; she had indeed
spent some days in analysing them and had succeeded in separating the
pleasant part of the idea of Lord Warburton's "making up" to her from
the painful. It may appear to some readers that the young lady was both
precipitate and unduly fastidious; but the latter of these facts, if
the charge be true, may serve to exonerate her from the discredit of
the former. She was not eager to convince herself that a territorial
magnate, as she had heard Lord Warburton called, was smitten with her
charms; the fact of a declaration from such a source carrying with it
really more questions than it would answer. She had received a strong
impression of his being a "personage," and she had occupied herself in
examining the image so conveyed. At the risk of adding to the evidence
of her self-sufficiency it must be said that there had been moments
when this possibility of admiration by a personage represented to her an
aggression almost to the degree of an affront, quite to the degree of
an inconvenience. She had never yet known a personage; there had been no
personages, in this sense, in her life; there were probably none such at
all in her native land. When she had thought of individual eminence she
had thought of it on the basis of character and wit--of what one
might like in a gentleman's mind and in his talk. She herself was a
character--she couldn't help being aware of that; and hitherto her
visions of a completed consciousness had concerned themselves largely
with moral images--things as to which the question would be whether they
pleased her sublime soul. Lord Warburton loomed up before her, largely
and brightly, as a collection of attributes and powers which were not to
be measured by this simple rule, but which demanded a different sort of
appreciation--an appreciation that the girl, with her habit of judging
quickly and freely, felt she lacked patience to bestow. He appeared to
demand of her something that no one else, as it were, had presumed to
do. What she felt was that a territorial, a political, a social magnate
had conceived the design of drawing her into the system in which he
rather invidiously lived and moved. A certain instinct, not imperious,
but persuasive, told her to resist--murmured to her that virtually
she had a system and an orbit of her own. It told her other things
besides--things which both contradicted and confirmed each other; that
a girl might do much worse than trust herself to such a man and that it
would be very interesting to see something of his system from his own
point of view; that on the other hand, however, there was evidently a
great deal of it which she should regard only as a complication of every
hour, and that even in the whole there was something stiff and stupid
which would make it a burden. Furthermore there was a young man lately
come from America who had no system at all, but who had a character
of which it was useless for her to try to persuade herself that the
impression on her mind had been light. The letter she carried in
her pocket all sufficiently reminded her of the contrary. Smile not,
however, I venture to repeat, at this simple young woman from Albany who
debated whether she should accept an English peer before he had offered
himself and who was disposed to believe that on the whole she could do
better. She was a person of great good faith, and if there was a great
deal of folly in her wisdom those who judge her severely may have the
satisfaction of finding that, later, she became consistently wise only
at the cost of an amount of folly which will constitute almost a direct
appeal to charity.
Lord Warburton seemed quite ready to walk, to sit or to do anything that
Isabel should propose, and he gave her this assurance with his usual air
of being particularly pleased to exercise a social virtue. But he was,
nevertheless, not in command of his emotions, and as he strolled beside
her for a moment, in silence, looking at her without letting her know
it, there was something embarrassed in his glance and his misdirected
laughter. Yes, assuredly--as we have touched on the point, we may return
to it for a moment again--the English are the most romantic people in
the world and Lord Warburton was about to give an example of it. He was
about to take a step which would astonish all his friends and displease
a great many of them, and which had superficially nothing to recommend
it. The young lady who trod the turf beside him had come from a queer
country across the sea which he knew a good deal about; her antecedents,
her associations were very vague to his mind except in so far as they
were generic, and in this sense they showed as distinct and unimportant.
Miss Archer had neither a fortune nor the sort of beauty that justifies
a man to the multitude, and he calculated that he had spent about
twenty-six hours in her company. He had summed up all this--the
perversity of the impulse, which had declined to avail itself of the
most liberal opportunities to subside, and the judgement of mankind, as
exemplified particularly in the more quickly-judging half of it: he had
looked these things well in the face and then had dismissed them from
his thoughts. He cared no more for them than for the rosebud in his
buttonhole. It is the good fortune of a man who for the greater part of
a lifetime has abstained without effort from making himself disagreeable
to his friends, that when the need comes for such a course it is not
discredited by irritating associations.
"I hope you had a pleasant ride," said Isabel, who observed her
companion's hesitancy.
"It would have been pleasant if for nothing else than that it brought me
here."
"Are you so fond of Gardencourt?" the girl asked, more and more sure
that he meant to make some appeal to her; wishing not to challenge him
if he hesitated, and yet to keep all the quietness of her reason if he
proceeded. It suddenly came upon her that her situation was one which a
few weeks ago she would have deemed deeply romantic: the park of an old
English country-house, with the foreground embellished by a "great" (as
she supposed) nobleman in the act of making love to a young lady who, on
careful inspection, should be found to present remarkable analogies with
herself. But if she was now the heroine of the situation she succeeded
scarcely the less in looking at it from the outside.
"I care nothing for Gardencourt," said her companion. "I care only for
you."
"You've known me too short a time to have a right to say that, and I
can't believe you're serious."
These words of Isabel's were not perfectly sincere, for she had no doubt
whatever that he himself was. They were simply a tribute to the fact, of
which she was perfectly aware, that those he had just uttered would
have excited surprise on the part of a vulgar world. And, moreover, if
anything beside the sense she had already acquired that Lord Warburton
was not a loose thinker had been needed to convince her, the tone in
which he replied would quite have served the purpose.
"One's right in such a matter is not measured by the time, Miss Archer;
it's measured by the feeling itself. If I were to wait three months it
would make no difference; I shall not be more sure of what I mean than I
am to-day. Of course I've seen you very little, but my impression dates
from the very first hour we met. I lost no time, I fell in love with you
then. It was at first sight, as the novels say; I know now that's not a
fancy-phrase, and I shall think better of novels for evermore. Those two
days I spent here settled it; I don't know whether you suspected I was
doing so, but I paid-mentally speaking I mean--the greatest possible
attention to you. Nothing you said, nothing you did, was lost upon
me. When you came to Lockleigh the other day--or rather when you went
away--I was perfectly sure. Nevertheless I made up my mind to think it
over and to question myself narrowly. I've done so; all these days I've
done nothing else. I don't make mistakes about such things; I'm a very
judicious animal. I don't go off easily, but when I'm touched, it's
for life. It's for life, Miss Archer, it's for life," Lord Warburton
repeated in the kindest, tenderest, pleasantest voice Isabel had ever
heard, and looking at her with eyes charged with the light of a passion
that had sifted itself clear of the baser parts of emotion--the heat,
the violence, the unreason--and that burned as steadily as a lamp in a
windless place.
By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and more slowly,
and at last they stopped and he took her hand. "Ah, Lord Warburton, how
little you know me!" Isabel said very gently. Gently too she drew her
hand away.
"Don't taunt me with that; that I don't know you better makes me unhappy
enough already; it's all my loss. But that's what I want, and it seems
to me I'm taking the best way. If you'll be my wife, then I shall know
you, and when I tell you all the good I think of you you'll not be able
to say it's from ignorance."
"If you know me little I know you even less," said Isabel.
"You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on acquaintance? Ah,
of course that's very possible. But think, to speak to you as I do,
how determined I must be to try and give satisfaction! You do like me
rather, don't you?"
"I like you very much, Lord Warburton," she answered; and at this moment
she liked him immensely.
"I thank you for saying that; it shows you don't regard me as a
stranger. I really believe I've filled all the other relations of life
very creditably, and I don't see why I shouldn't fill this one--in which
I offer myself to you--seeing that I care so much more about it. Ask the
people who know me well; I've friends who'll speak for me."
"I don't need the recommendation of your friends," said Isabel.
"Ah now, that's delightful of you. You believe in me yourself."
"Completely," Isabel declared. She quite glowed there, inwardly, with
the pleasure of feeling she did.
The light in her companion's eyes turned into a smile, and he gave a
long exhalation of joy. "If you're mistaken, Miss Archer, let me lose
all I possess!"
She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he was rich, and,
on the instant, felt sure that he didn't. He was thinking that, as he
would have said himself; and indeed he might safely leave it to the
memory of any interlocutor, especially of one to whom he was offering
his hand. Isabel had prayed that she might not be agitated, and her mind
was tranquil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what it
was best she should say, to indulge in this incidental criticism. What
she should say, had she asked herself? Her foremost wish was to say
something if possible not less kind than what he had said to her. His
words had carried perfect conviction with them; she felt she did, all so
mysteriously, matter to him. "I thank you more than I can say for your
offer," she returned at last. "It does me great honour."
"Ah, don't say that!" he broke out. "I was afraid you'd say something
like that. I don't see what you've to do with that sort of thing. I
don't see why you should thank me--it's I who ought to thank you for
listening to me: a man you know so little coming down on you with such
a thumper! Of course it's a great question; I must tell you that
I'd rather ask it than have it to answer myself. But the way you've
listened--or at least your having listened at all--gives me some hope."
"Don't hope too much," Isabel said.
"Oh Miss Archer!" her companion murmured, smiling again, in his
seriousness, as if such a warning might perhaps be taken but as the play
of high spirits, the exuberance of elation.
"Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not to hope at
all?" Isabel asked.
"Surprised? I don't know what you mean by surprise. It wouldn't be that;
it would be a feeling very much worse."
Isabel walked on again; she was silent for some minutes. "I'm very sure
that, highly as I already think of you, my opinion of you, if I should
know you well, would only rise. But I'm by no means sure that you
wouldn't be disappointed. And I say that not in the least out of
conventional modesty; it's perfectly sincere."
"I'm willing to risk it, Miss Archer," her companion replied.
"It's a great question, as you say. It's a very difficult question."
"I don't expect you of course to answer it outright. Think it over as
long as may be necessary. If I can gain by waiting I'll gladly wait a
long time. Only remember that in the end my dearest happiness depends on
your answer."
"I should be very sorry to keep you in suspense," said Isabel.
"Oh, don't mind. I'd much rather have a good answer six months hence
than a bad one to-day."
"But it's very probable that even six months hence I shouldn't be able
to give you one that you'd think good."
"Why not, since you really like me?"
"Ah, you must never doubt that," said Isabel.
"Well then, I don't see what more you ask!"
"It's not what I ask; it's what I can give. I don't think I should suit
you; I really don't think I should."
"You needn't worry about that. That's my affair. You needn't be a better
royalist than the king."
"It's not only that," said Isabel; "but I'm not sure I wish to marry any
one."
"Very likely you don't. I've no doubt a great many women begin that
way," said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not in the least
believe in the axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety by uttering. "But
they're frequently persuaded."
"Ah, that's because they want to be!" And Isabel lightly laughed. Her
suitor's countenance fell, and he looked at her for a while in silence.
"I'm afraid it's my being an Englishman that makes you hesitate," he
said presently. "I know your uncle thinks you ought to marry in your own
country."
Isabel listened to this assertion with some interest; it had never
occurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discuss her matrimonial
prospects with Lord Warburton. "Has he told you that?"
"I remember his making the remark. He spoke perhaps of Americans
generally."
"He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in England."
Isabel spoke in a manner that might have seemed a little perverse, but
which expressed both her constant perception of her uncle's outward
felicity and her general disposition to elude any obligation to take a
restricted view.
It gave her companion hope, and he immediately cried with warmth: "Ah,
my dear Miss Archer, old England's a very good sort of country, you
know! And it will be still better when we've furbished it up a little."
"Oh, don't furbish it, Lord Warburton--, leave it alone. I like it this
way."
"Well then, if you like it, I'm more and more unable to see your
objection to what I propose."
"I'm afraid I can't make you understand."
"You ought at least to try. I've a fair intelligence. Are you
afraid--afraid of the climate? We can easily live elsewhere, you know.
You can pick out your climate, the whole world over."
These words were uttered with a breadth of candour that was like the
embrace of strong arms--that was like the fragrance straight in her
face, and by his clean, breathing lips, of she knew not what strange
gardens, what charged airs. She would have given her little finger at
that moment to feel strongly and simply the impulse to answer: "Lord
Warburton, it's impossible for me to do better in this wonderful world,
I think, than commit myself, very gratefully, to your loyalty." But
though she was lost in admiration of her opportunity she managed to move
back into the deepest shade of it, even as some wild, caught creature in
a vast cage. The "splendid" security so offered her was not the greatest
she could conceive. What she finally bethought herself of saying was
something very different--something that deferred the need of really
facing her crisis. "Don't think me unkind if I ask you to say no more
about this to-day."
"Certainly, certainly!" her companion cried. "I wouldn't bore you for
the world."
"You've given me a great deal to think about, and I promise you to do it
justice."
"That's all I ask of you, of course--and that you'll remember how
absolutely my happiness is in your hands."
Isabel listened with extreme respect to this admonition, but she said
after a minute: "I must tell you that what I shall think about is some
way of letting you know that what you ask is impossible--letting you
know it without making you miserable."
"There's no way to do that, Miss Archer. I won't say that if you refuse
me you'll kill me; I shall not die of it. But I shall do worse; I shall
live to no purpose."
"You'll live to marry a better woman than I."
"Don't say that, please," said Lord Warburton very gravely. "That's fair
to neither of us."
"To marry a worse one then."
"If there are better women than you I prefer the bad ones. That's all I
can say," he went on with the same earnestness. "There's no accounting
for tastes."
His gravity made her feel equally grave, and she showed it by again
requesting him to drop the subject for the present. "I'll speak to you
myself--very soon. Perhaps I shall write to you."
"At your convenience, yes," he replied. "Whatever time you take, it must
seem to me long, and I suppose I must make the best of that."
"I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect my mind a
little."
He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with his
hands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop. "Do
you know I'm very much afraid of it--of that remarkable mind of yours?"
Our heroine's biographer can scarcely tell why, but the question made
her start and brought a conscious blush to her cheek. She returned his
look a moment, and then with a note in her voice that might almost have
appealed to his compassion, "So am I, my lord!" she oddly exclaimed.
His compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed of the faculty
of pity was needed at home. "Ah! be merciful, be merciful," he murmured.
"I think you had better go," said Isabel. "I'll write to you."
"Very good; but whatever you write I'll come and see you, you know." And
then he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on the observant countenance of
Bunchie, who had the air of having understood all that had been said
and of pretending to carry off the indiscretion by a simulated fit of
curiosity as to the roots of an ancient oak. "There's one thing more,"
he went on. "You know, if you don't like Lockleigh--if you think it's
damp or anything of that sort--you need never go within fifty miles of
it. It's not damp, by the way; I've had the house thoroughly examined;
it's perfectly safe and right. But if you shouldn't fancy it you needn't
dream of living in it. There's no difficulty whatever about that; there
are plenty of houses. I thought I'd just mention it; some people don't
like a moat, you know. Good-bye."
"I adore a moat," said Isabel. "Good-bye."
He held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment--a moment long
enough for him to bend his handsome bared head and kiss it. Then, still
agitating, in his mastered emotion, his implement of the chase, he
walked rapidly away. He was evidently much upset.
Isabel herself was upset, but she had not been affected as she would
have imagined. What she felt was not a great responsibility, a great
difficulty of choice; it appeared to her there had been no choice in the
question. She couldn't marry Lord Warburton; the idea failed to support
any enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that
she had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining.
She must write this to him, she must convince him, and that duty was
comparatively simple. But what disturbed her, in the sense that it
struck her with wonderment, was this very fact that it cost her so
little to refuse a magnificent "chance." With whatever qualifications
one would, Lord Warburton had offered her a great opportunity; the
situation might have discomforts, might contain oppressive, might
contain narrowing elements, might prove really but a stupefying anodyne;
but she did her sex no injustice in believing that nineteen women out of
twenty would have accommodated themselves to it without a pang. Why then
upon her also should it not irresistibly impose itself? Who was she,
what was she, that she should hold herself superior? What view of
life, what design upon fate, what conception of happiness, had she that
pretended to be larger than these large these fabulous occasions? If she
wouldn't do such a thing as that then she must do great things, she must
do something greater. Poor Isabel found ground to remind herself from
time to time that she must not be too proud, and nothing could be
more sincere than her prayer to be delivered from such a danger: the
isolation and loneliness of pride had for her mind the horror of a
desert place. If it had been pride that interfered with her accepting
Lord Warburton such a betise was singularly misplaced; and she was so
conscious of liking him that she ventured to assure herself it was the
very softness, and the fine intelligence, of sympathy. She liked him too
much to marry him, that was the truth; something assured her there was
a fallacy somewhere in the glowing logic of the proposition--as he saw
it--even though she mightn't put her very finest finger-point on it;
and to inflict upon a man who offered so much a wife with a tendency to
criticise would be a peculiarly discreditable act. She had promised him
she would consider his question, and when, after he had left her, she
wandered back to the bench where he had found her and lost herself in
meditation, it might have seemed that she was keeping her vow. But
this was not the case; she was wondering if she were not a cold, hard,
priggish person, and, on her at last getting up and going rather
quickly back to the house, felt, as she had said to her friend, really
frightened at herself.
| Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions. | analysis |
Miss Stackpole would have prepared to start immediately; but Isabel, as
we have seen, had been notified that Lord Warburton would come again to
Gardencourt, and she believed it her duty to remain there and see him.
For four or five days he had made no response to her letter; then he had
written, very briefly, to say he would come to luncheon two days later.
There was something in these delays and postponements that touched the
girl and renewed her sense of his desire to be considerate and patient,
not to appear to urge her too grossly; a consideration the more studied
that she was so sure he "really liked" her. Isabel told her uncle she
had written to him, mentioning also his intention of coming; and the
old man, in consequence, left his room earlier than usual and made his
appearance at the two o'clock repast. This was by no means an act of
vigilance on his part, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his
being of the company might help to cover any conjoined straying away
in case Isabel should give their noble visitor another hearing. That
personage drove over from Lockleigh and brought the elder of his sisters
with him, a measure presumably dictated by reflexions of the same order
as Mr. Touchett's. The two visitors were introduced to Miss Stackpole,
who, at luncheon, occupied a seat adjoining Lord Warburton's. Isabel,
who was nervous and had no relish for the prospect of again arguing
the question he had so prematurely opened, could not help admiring his
good-humoured self-possession, which quite disguised the symptoms of
that preoccupation with her presence it was natural she should suppose
him to feel. He neither looked at her nor spoke to her, and the only
sign of his emotion was that he avoided meeting her eyes. He had plenty
of talk for the others, however, and he appeared to eat his luncheon
with discrimination and appetite. Miss Molyneux, who had a smooth,
nun-like forehead and wore a large silver cross suspended from her neck,
was evidently preoccupied with Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her
eyes constantly rested in a manner suggesting a conflict between deep
alienation and yearning wonder. Of the two ladies from Lockleigh she
was the one Isabel had liked best; there was such a world of hereditary
quiet in her. Isabel was sure moreover that her mild forehead and
silver cross referred to some weird Anglican mystery--some delightful
reinstitution perhaps of the quaint office of the canoness. She wondered
what Miss Molyneux would think of her if she knew Miss Archer had
refused her brother; and then she felt sure that Miss Molyneux would
never know--that Lord Warburton never told her such things. He was fond
of her and kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at
least, was Isabel's theory; when, at table, she was not occupied in
conversation she was usually occupied in forming theories about her
neighbours. According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learn what
had passed between Miss Archer and Lord Warburton she would probably be
shocked at such a girl's failure to rise; or no, rather (this was our
heroine's last position) she would impute to the young American but a
due consciousness of inequality.
Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, at all events,
Henrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neglect those in which
she now found herself immersed. "Do you know you're the first lord I've
ever seen?" she said very promptly to her neighbour. "I suppose you
think I'm awfully benighted."
"You've escaped seeing some very ugly men," Lord Warburton answered,
looking a trifle absently about the table.
"Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in America that they're
all handsome and magnificent and that they wear wonderful robes and
crowns."
"Ah, the robes and crowns are gone out of fashion," said Lord Warburton,
"like your tomahawks and revolvers."
"I'm sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splendid,"
Henrietta declared. "If it's not that, what is it?"
"Oh, you know, it isn't much, at the best," her neighbour allowed.
"Won't you have a potato?"
"I don't care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn't know you
from an ordinary American gentleman."
"Do talk to me as if I were one," said Lord Warburton. "I don't see how
you manage to get on without potatoes; you must find so few things to
eat over here."
Henrietta was silent a little; there was a chance he was not sincere.
"I've had hardly any appetite since I've been here," she went on at
last; "so it doesn't much matter. I don't approve of you, you know; I
feel as if I ought to tell you that."
"Don't approve of me?"
"Yes; I don't suppose any one ever said such a thing to you before, did
they? I don't approve of lords as an institution. I think the world has
got beyond them--far beyond."
"Oh, so do I. I don't approve of myself in the least. Sometimes it comes
over me--how I should object to myself if I were not myself, don't you
know? But that's rather good, by the way--not to be vainglorious."
"Why don't you give it up then?" Miss Stackpole enquired.
"Give up--a--?" asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh inflexion with a
very mellow one.
"Give up being a lord."
"Oh, I'm so little of one! One would really forget all about it if you
wretched Americans were not constantly reminding one. However, I do
think of giving it up, the little there is left of it, one of these
days."
"I should like to see you do it!" Henrietta exclaimed rather grimly.
"I'll invite you to the ceremony; we'll have a supper and a dance."
"Well," said Miss Stackpole, "I like to see all sides. I don't approve
of a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have to say for
themselves."
"Mighty little, as you see!"
"I should like to draw you out a little more," Henrietta continued. "But
you're always looking away. You're afraid of meeting my eye. I see you
want to escape me."
"No, I'm only looking for those despised potatoes."
"Please explain about that young lady--your sister--then. I don't
understand about her. Is she a Lady?"
"She's a capital good girl."
"I don't like the way you say that--as if you wanted to change the
subject. Is her position inferior to yours?"
"We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she's better off
than I, because she has none of the bother."
"Yes, she doesn't look as if she had much bother. I wish I had as little
bother as that. You do produce quiet people over here, whatever else you
may do."
"Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole," said Lord Warburton.
"And then you know we're very dull. Ah, we can be dull when we try!"
"I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn't know what to
talk to your sister about; she looks so different. Is that silver cross
a badge?"
"A badge?"
"A sign of rank."
Lord Warburton's glance had wandered a good deal, but at this it met the
gaze of his neighbour. "Oh yes," he answered in a moment; "the women go
in for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest daughters of
Viscounts." Which was his harmless revenge for having occasionally had
his credulity too easily engaged in America. After luncheon he proposed
to Isabel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; and though
she knew he had seen the pictures twenty times she complied without
criticising this pretext. Her conscience now was very easy; ever since
she sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit. He
walked slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at its contents and
saying nothing; and then he suddenly broke out: "I hoped you wouldn't
write to me that way."
"It was the only way, Lord Warburton," said the girl. "Do try and
believe that."
"If I could believe it of course I should let you alone. But we can't
believe by willing it; and I confess I don't understand. I could
understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you
should admit you do--"
"What have I admitted?" Isabel interrupted, turning slightly pale.
"That you think me a good fellow; isn't that it?" She said nothing,
and he went on: "You don't seem to have any reason, and that gives me a
sense of injustice."
"I have a reason, Lord Warburton." She said it in a tone that made his
heart contract.
"I should like very much to know it."
"I'll tell you some day when there's more to show for it."
"Excuse my saying that in the mean time I must doubt of it."
"You make me very unhappy," said Isabel.
"I'm not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you
kindly answer me a question?" Isabel made no audible assent, but he
apparently saw in her eyes something that gave him courage to go on. "Do
you prefer some one else?"
"That's a question I'd rather not answer."
"Ah, you do then!" her suitor murmured with bitterness.
The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: "You're mistaken! I
don't."
He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in
trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. "I
can't even be glad of that," he said at last, throwing himself back
against the wall; "for that would be an excuse."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "An excuse? Must I excuse myself?"
He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into
his head. "Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?"
"I can't object to your political opinions, because I don't understand
them."
"You don't care what I think!" he cried, getting up. "It's all the same
to you."
Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery and stood there showing
him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white
neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She
stopped in front of a small picture as if for the purpose of examining
it; and there was something so young and free in her movement that her
very pliancy seemed to mock at him. Her eyes, however, saw nothing; they
had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and
by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned round
her face was pale and the expression of her eyes strange. "That reason
that I wouldn't tell you--I'll tell it you after all. It's that I can't
escape my fate."
"Your fate?"
"I should try to escape it if I were to marry you."
"I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate as well as
anything else?"
"Because it's not," said Isabel femininely. "I know it's not. It's not
my fate to give up--I know it can't be."
Poor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in either eye. "Do
you call marrying me giving up?"
"Not in the usual sense. It's getting--getting--getting a great deal.
But it's giving up other chances."
"Other chances for what?"
"I don't mean chances to marry," said Isabel, her colour quickly coming
back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if
it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear.
"I don't think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you'll gain more
than you'll lose," her companion observed.
"I can't escape unhappiness," said Isabel. "In marrying you I shall be
trying to."
"I don't know whether you'd try to, but you certainly would: that I must
in candour admit!" he exclaimed with an anxious laugh.
"I mustn't--I can't!" cried the girl.
"Well, if you're bent on being miserable I don't see why you should make
me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for you, it has none
for me."
"I'm not bent on a life of misery," said Isabel. "I've always been
intensely determined to be happy, and I've often believed I should be.
I've told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every
now and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by
turning away, by separating myself."
"By separating yourself from what?"
"From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people
know and suffer."
Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. "Why,
my dear Miss Archer," he began to explain with the most considerate
eagerness, "I don't offer you any exoneration from life or from any
chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it I would! For
what do you take me, pray? Heaven help me, I'm not the Emperor of China!
All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable
sort of way. The common lot? Why, I'm devoted to the common lot! Strike
an alliance with me, and I promise you that you shall have plenty of it.
You shall separate from nothing whatever--not even from your friend Miss
Stackpole."
"She'd never approve of it," said Isabel, trying to smile and take
advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for
doing so.
"Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?" his lordship asked impatiently. "I
never saw a person judge things on such theoretic grounds."
"Now I suppose you're speaking of me," said Isabel with humility; and
she turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the gallery,
accompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph.
Lord Warburton's sister addressed him with a certain timidity and
reminded him she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was
expecting company to partake of it. He made no answer--apparently
not having heard her; he was preoccupied, and with good reason. Miss
Molyneux--as if he had been Royalty--stood like a lady-in-waiting.
"Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!" said Henrietta Stackpole. "If I wanted
to go he'd have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing he'd have to
do it."
"Oh, Warburton does everything one wants," Miss Molyneux answered with
a quick, shy laugh. "How very many pictures you have!" she went on,
turning to Ralph.
"They look a good many, because they're all put together," said Ralph.
"But it's really a bad way."
"Oh, I think it's so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh. I'm so
very fond of pictures," Miss Molyneux went on, persistently, to Ralph,
as if she were afraid Miss Stackpole would address her again. Henrietta
appeared at once to fascinate and to frighten her.
"Ah yes, pictures are very convenient," said Ralph, who appeared to know
better what style of reflexion was acceptable to her.
"They're so very pleasant when it rains," the young lady continued. "It
has rained of late so very often."
"I'm sorry you're going away, Lord Warburton," said Henrietta. "I wanted
to get a great deal more out of you."
"I'm not going away," Lord Warburton answered.
"Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey the ladies."
"I'm afraid we have some people to tea," said Miss Molyneux, looking at
her brother.
"Very good, my dear. We'll go."
"I hoped you would resist!" Henrietta exclaimed. "I wanted to see what
Miss Molyneux would do."
"I never do anything," said this young lady.
"I suppose in your position it's sufficient for you to exist!" Miss
Stackpole returned. "I should like very much to see you at home."
"You must come to Lockleigh again," said Miss Molyneux, very sweetly, to
Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel's friend. Isabel looked into her
quiet eyes a moment, and for that moment seemed to see in their grey
depths the reflexion of everything she had rejected in rejecting Lord
Warburton--the peace, the kindness, the honour, the possessions, a deep
security and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux and then she
said: "I'm afraid I can never come again."
"Never again?"
"I'm afraid I'm going away."
"Oh, I'm so very sorry," said Miss Molyneux. "I think that's so very
wrong of you."
Lord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned away and
stared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail before the picture
with his hands in his pockets, had for the moment been watching him.
"I should like to see you at home," said Henrietta, whom Lord Warburton
found beside him. "I should like an hour's talk with you; there are a
great many questions I wish to ask you."
"I shall be delighted to see you," the proprietor of Lockleigh answered;
"but I'm certain not to be able to answer many of your questions. When
will you come?"
"Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We're thinking of going to London,
but we'll go and see you first. I'm determined to get some satisfaction
out of you."
"If it depends upon Miss Archer I'm afraid you won't get much. She won't
come to Lockleigh; she doesn't like the place."
"She told me it was lovely!" said Henrietta.
Lord Warburton hesitated. "She won't come, all the same. You had better
come alone," he added.
Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded. "Would you
make that remark to an English lady?" she enquired with soft asperity.
Lord Warburton stared. "Yes, if I liked her enough."
"You'd be careful not to like her enough. If Miss Archer won't visit
your place again it's because she doesn't want to take me. I know what
she thinks of me, and I suppose you think the same--that I oughtn't to
bring in individuals." Lord Warburton was at a loss; he had not been
made acquainted with Miss Stackpole's professional character and failed
to catch her allusion. "Miss Archer has been warning you!" she therefore
went on.
"Warning me?"
"Isn't that why she came off alone with you here--to put you on your
guard?"
"Oh dear, no," said Lord Warburton brazenly; "our talk had no such
solemn character as that."
"Well, you've been on your guard--intensely. I suppose it's natural
to you; that's just what I wanted to observe. And so, too, Miss
Molyneux--she wouldn't commit herself. You have been warned, anyway,"
Henrietta continued, addressing this young lady; "but for you it wasn't
necessary."
"I hope not," said Miss Molyneux vaguely.
"Miss Stackpole takes notes," Ralph soothingly explained. "She's a great
satirist; she sees through us all and she works us up."
"Well, I must say I never have had such a collection of bad material!"
Henrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord Warburton and from this
nobleman to his sister and to Ralph. "There's something the matter with
you all; you're as dismal as if you had got a bad cable."
"You do see through us, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph in a low tone,
giving her a little intelligent nod as he led the party out of the
gallery. "There's something the matter with us all."
Isabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedly liked her
immensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside her over the polished
floor. Lord Warburton strolled on the other side with his hands behind
him and his eyes lowered. For some moments he said nothing; and then,
"Is it true you're going to London?" he asked.
"I believe it has been arranged."
"And when shall you come back?"
"In a few days; but probably for a very short time. I'm going to Paris
with my aunt."
"When, then, shall I see you again?"
"Not for a good while," said Isabel. "But some day or other, I hope."
"Do you really hope it?"
"Very much."
He went a few steps in silence; then he stopped and put out his hand.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said Isabel.
Miss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart. After it,
without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own room; in
which apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs. Touchett, who had
stopped on her way to the salon. "I may as well tell you," said that
lady, "that your uncle has informed me of your relations with Lord
Warburton."
Isabel considered. "Relations? They're hardly relations. That's the
strange part of it: he has seen me but three or four times."
"Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?" Mrs. Touchett
dispassionately asked.
Again the girl hesitated. "Because he knows Lord Warburton better."
"Yes, but I know you better."
"I'm not sure of that," said Isabel, smiling.
"Neither am I, after all; especially when you give me that rather
conceited look. One would think you were awfully pleased with yourself
and had carried off a prize! I suppose that when you refuse an offer
like Lord Warburton's it's because you expect to do something better."
"Ah, my uncle didn't say that!" cried Isabel, smiling still.
| Lord Warburton and his sisters arrive at Gardencourt right before Isabel departs for London. Henrietta meets Lord Warburton and tells him that she does not approve of lords as an institution. Lord Warburton agrees, and Miss Stackpole asks why he does not give it up. Lord Warburton jokes that they'll make a ceremony of it. Isabel and Lord Warburton have a moment alone in the gallery together. He tells her he does not understand why she rejects him, and he interrogates her as to what her reasons are. Isabel at least tells him the reason is that she feels she cannot escape her fate. It's not my fate to give up," she tells him. She does not want to give up other chances. I can't escape unhappiness. In marrying you I shall be trying to," she explains. She claims it is not that she wants to be miserable, but rather that she does not want to separate herself from the "usual chances and dangers" of life. Lord Warburton promises to separate her from nothing. The rest of the group then interrupts Isabel and Lord Warburton. Isabel tells Miss Molyneux that she will not be able to visit Lockleigh again because she is going away. Henrietta declares the whole party very dismal and bad material for any article she would write about them. Before Isabel leaves, Mrs. Touchett informs her that she knows about Lord Warburton's offer. She claims to know Isabel better than Mr. Touchett does, and she says that when she refuses such an offer it is because she expects to do something better | summary |
Miss Stackpole would have prepared to start immediately; but Isabel, as
we have seen, had been notified that Lord Warburton would come again to
Gardencourt, and she believed it her duty to remain there and see him.
For four or five days he had made no response to her letter; then he had
written, very briefly, to say he would come to luncheon two days later.
There was something in these delays and postponements that touched the
girl and renewed her sense of his desire to be considerate and patient,
not to appear to urge her too grossly; a consideration the more studied
that she was so sure he "really liked" her. Isabel told her uncle she
had written to him, mentioning also his intention of coming; and the
old man, in consequence, left his room earlier than usual and made his
appearance at the two o'clock repast. This was by no means an act of
vigilance on his part, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his
being of the company might help to cover any conjoined straying away
in case Isabel should give their noble visitor another hearing. That
personage drove over from Lockleigh and brought the elder of his sisters
with him, a measure presumably dictated by reflexions of the same order
as Mr. Touchett's. The two visitors were introduced to Miss Stackpole,
who, at luncheon, occupied a seat adjoining Lord Warburton's. Isabel,
who was nervous and had no relish for the prospect of again arguing
the question he had so prematurely opened, could not help admiring his
good-humoured self-possession, which quite disguised the symptoms of
that preoccupation with her presence it was natural she should suppose
him to feel. He neither looked at her nor spoke to her, and the only
sign of his emotion was that he avoided meeting her eyes. He had plenty
of talk for the others, however, and he appeared to eat his luncheon
with discrimination and appetite. Miss Molyneux, who had a smooth,
nun-like forehead and wore a large silver cross suspended from her neck,
was evidently preoccupied with Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her
eyes constantly rested in a manner suggesting a conflict between deep
alienation and yearning wonder. Of the two ladies from Lockleigh she
was the one Isabel had liked best; there was such a world of hereditary
quiet in her. Isabel was sure moreover that her mild forehead and
silver cross referred to some weird Anglican mystery--some delightful
reinstitution perhaps of the quaint office of the canoness. She wondered
what Miss Molyneux would think of her if she knew Miss Archer had
refused her brother; and then she felt sure that Miss Molyneux would
never know--that Lord Warburton never told her such things. He was fond
of her and kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at
least, was Isabel's theory; when, at table, she was not occupied in
conversation she was usually occupied in forming theories about her
neighbours. According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learn what
had passed between Miss Archer and Lord Warburton she would probably be
shocked at such a girl's failure to rise; or no, rather (this was our
heroine's last position) she would impute to the young American but a
due consciousness of inequality.
Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, at all events,
Henrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neglect those in which
she now found herself immersed. "Do you know you're the first lord I've
ever seen?" she said very promptly to her neighbour. "I suppose you
think I'm awfully benighted."
"You've escaped seeing some very ugly men," Lord Warburton answered,
looking a trifle absently about the table.
"Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in America that they're
all handsome and magnificent and that they wear wonderful robes and
crowns."
"Ah, the robes and crowns are gone out of fashion," said Lord Warburton,
"like your tomahawks and revolvers."
"I'm sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splendid,"
Henrietta declared. "If it's not that, what is it?"
"Oh, you know, it isn't much, at the best," her neighbour allowed.
"Won't you have a potato?"
"I don't care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn't know you
from an ordinary American gentleman."
"Do talk to me as if I were one," said Lord Warburton. "I don't see how
you manage to get on without potatoes; you must find so few things to
eat over here."
Henrietta was silent a little; there was a chance he was not sincere.
"I've had hardly any appetite since I've been here," she went on at
last; "so it doesn't much matter. I don't approve of you, you know; I
feel as if I ought to tell you that."
"Don't approve of me?"
"Yes; I don't suppose any one ever said such a thing to you before, did
they? I don't approve of lords as an institution. I think the world has
got beyond them--far beyond."
"Oh, so do I. I don't approve of myself in the least. Sometimes it comes
over me--how I should object to myself if I were not myself, don't you
know? But that's rather good, by the way--not to be vainglorious."
"Why don't you give it up then?" Miss Stackpole enquired.
"Give up--a--?" asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh inflexion with a
very mellow one.
"Give up being a lord."
"Oh, I'm so little of one! One would really forget all about it if you
wretched Americans were not constantly reminding one. However, I do
think of giving it up, the little there is left of it, one of these
days."
"I should like to see you do it!" Henrietta exclaimed rather grimly.
"I'll invite you to the ceremony; we'll have a supper and a dance."
"Well," said Miss Stackpole, "I like to see all sides. I don't approve
of a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have to say for
themselves."
"Mighty little, as you see!"
"I should like to draw you out a little more," Henrietta continued. "But
you're always looking away. You're afraid of meeting my eye. I see you
want to escape me."
"No, I'm only looking for those despised potatoes."
"Please explain about that young lady--your sister--then. I don't
understand about her. Is she a Lady?"
"She's a capital good girl."
"I don't like the way you say that--as if you wanted to change the
subject. Is her position inferior to yours?"
"We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she's better off
than I, because she has none of the bother."
"Yes, she doesn't look as if she had much bother. I wish I had as little
bother as that. You do produce quiet people over here, whatever else you
may do."
"Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole," said Lord Warburton.
"And then you know we're very dull. Ah, we can be dull when we try!"
"I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn't know what to
talk to your sister about; she looks so different. Is that silver cross
a badge?"
"A badge?"
"A sign of rank."
Lord Warburton's glance had wandered a good deal, but at this it met the
gaze of his neighbour. "Oh yes," he answered in a moment; "the women go
in for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest daughters of
Viscounts." Which was his harmless revenge for having occasionally had
his credulity too easily engaged in America. After luncheon he proposed
to Isabel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; and though
she knew he had seen the pictures twenty times she complied without
criticising this pretext. Her conscience now was very easy; ever since
she sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit. He
walked slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at its contents and
saying nothing; and then he suddenly broke out: "I hoped you wouldn't
write to me that way."
"It was the only way, Lord Warburton," said the girl. "Do try and
believe that."
"If I could believe it of course I should let you alone. But we can't
believe by willing it; and I confess I don't understand. I could
understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you
should admit you do--"
"What have I admitted?" Isabel interrupted, turning slightly pale.
"That you think me a good fellow; isn't that it?" She said nothing,
and he went on: "You don't seem to have any reason, and that gives me a
sense of injustice."
"I have a reason, Lord Warburton." She said it in a tone that made his
heart contract.
"I should like very much to know it."
"I'll tell you some day when there's more to show for it."
"Excuse my saying that in the mean time I must doubt of it."
"You make me very unhappy," said Isabel.
"I'm not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you
kindly answer me a question?" Isabel made no audible assent, but he
apparently saw in her eyes something that gave him courage to go on. "Do
you prefer some one else?"
"That's a question I'd rather not answer."
"Ah, you do then!" her suitor murmured with bitterness.
The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: "You're mistaken! I
don't."
He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in
trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. "I
can't even be glad of that," he said at last, throwing himself back
against the wall; "for that would be an excuse."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "An excuse? Must I excuse myself?"
He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into
his head. "Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?"
"I can't object to your political opinions, because I don't understand
them."
"You don't care what I think!" he cried, getting up. "It's all the same
to you."
Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery and stood there showing
him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white
neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She
stopped in front of a small picture as if for the purpose of examining
it; and there was something so young and free in her movement that her
very pliancy seemed to mock at him. Her eyes, however, saw nothing; they
had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and
by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned round
her face was pale and the expression of her eyes strange. "That reason
that I wouldn't tell you--I'll tell it you after all. It's that I can't
escape my fate."
"Your fate?"
"I should try to escape it if I were to marry you."
"I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate as well as
anything else?"
"Because it's not," said Isabel femininely. "I know it's not. It's not
my fate to give up--I know it can't be."
Poor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in either eye. "Do
you call marrying me giving up?"
"Not in the usual sense. It's getting--getting--getting a great deal.
But it's giving up other chances."
"Other chances for what?"
"I don't mean chances to marry," said Isabel, her colour quickly coming
back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if
it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear.
"I don't think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you'll gain more
than you'll lose," her companion observed.
"I can't escape unhappiness," said Isabel. "In marrying you I shall be
trying to."
"I don't know whether you'd try to, but you certainly would: that I must
in candour admit!" he exclaimed with an anxious laugh.
"I mustn't--I can't!" cried the girl.
"Well, if you're bent on being miserable I don't see why you should make
me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for you, it has none
for me."
"I'm not bent on a life of misery," said Isabel. "I've always been
intensely determined to be happy, and I've often believed I should be.
I've told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every
now and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by
turning away, by separating myself."
"By separating yourself from what?"
"From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people
know and suffer."
Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. "Why,
my dear Miss Archer," he began to explain with the most considerate
eagerness, "I don't offer you any exoneration from life or from any
chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it I would! For
what do you take me, pray? Heaven help me, I'm not the Emperor of China!
All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable
sort of way. The common lot? Why, I'm devoted to the common lot! Strike
an alliance with me, and I promise you that you shall have plenty of it.
You shall separate from nothing whatever--not even from your friend Miss
Stackpole."
"She'd never approve of it," said Isabel, trying to smile and take
advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for
doing so.
"Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?" his lordship asked impatiently. "I
never saw a person judge things on such theoretic grounds."
"Now I suppose you're speaking of me," said Isabel with humility; and
she turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the gallery,
accompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph.
Lord Warburton's sister addressed him with a certain timidity and
reminded him she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was
expecting company to partake of it. He made no answer--apparently
not having heard her; he was preoccupied, and with good reason. Miss
Molyneux--as if he had been Royalty--stood like a lady-in-waiting.
"Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!" said Henrietta Stackpole. "If I wanted
to go he'd have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing he'd have to
do it."
"Oh, Warburton does everything one wants," Miss Molyneux answered with
a quick, shy laugh. "How very many pictures you have!" she went on,
turning to Ralph.
"They look a good many, because they're all put together," said Ralph.
"But it's really a bad way."
"Oh, I think it's so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh. I'm so
very fond of pictures," Miss Molyneux went on, persistently, to Ralph,
as if she were afraid Miss Stackpole would address her again. Henrietta
appeared at once to fascinate and to frighten her.
"Ah yes, pictures are very convenient," said Ralph, who appeared to know
better what style of reflexion was acceptable to her.
"They're so very pleasant when it rains," the young lady continued. "It
has rained of late so very often."
"I'm sorry you're going away, Lord Warburton," said Henrietta. "I wanted
to get a great deal more out of you."
"I'm not going away," Lord Warburton answered.
"Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey the ladies."
"I'm afraid we have some people to tea," said Miss Molyneux, looking at
her brother.
"Very good, my dear. We'll go."
"I hoped you would resist!" Henrietta exclaimed. "I wanted to see what
Miss Molyneux would do."
"I never do anything," said this young lady.
"I suppose in your position it's sufficient for you to exist!" Miss
Stackpole returned. "I should like very much to see you at home."
"You must come to Lockleigh again," said Miss Molyneux, very sweetly, to
Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel's friend. Isabel looked into her
quiet eyes a moment, and for that moment seemed to see in their grey
depths the reflexion of everything she had rejected in rejecting Lord
Warburton--the peace, the kindness, the honour, the possessions, a deep
security and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux and then she
said: "I'm afraid I can never come again."
"Never again?"
"I'm afraid I'm going away."
"Oh, I'm so very sorry," said Miss Molyneux. "I think that's so very
wrong of you."
Lord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned away and
stared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail before the picture
with his hands in his pockets, had for the moment been watching him.
"I should like to see you at home," said Henrietta, whom Lord Warburton
found beside him. "I should like an hour's talk with you; there are a
great many questions I wish to ask you."
"I shall be delighted to see you," the proprietor of Lockleigh answered;
"but I'm certain not to be able to answer many of your questions. When
will you come?"
"Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We're thinking of going to London,
but we'll go and see you first. I'm determined to get some satisfaction
out of you."
"If it depends upon Miss Archer I'm afraid you won't get much. She won't
come to Lockleigh; she doesn't like the place."
"She told me it was lovely!" said Henrietta.
Lord Warburton hesitated. "She won't come, all the same. You had better
come alone," he added.
Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded. "Would you
make that remark to an English lady?" she enquired with soft asperity.
Lord Warburton stared. "Yes, if I liked her enough."
"You'd be careful not to like her enough. If Miss Archer won't visit
your place again it's because she doesn't want to take me. I know what
she thinks of me, and I suppose you think the same--that I oughtn't to
bring in individuals." Lord Warburton was at a loss; he had not been
made acquainted with Miss Stackpole's professional character and failed
to catch her allusion. "Miss Archer has been warning you!" she therefore
went on.
"Warning me?"
"Isn't that why she came off alone with you here--to put you on your
guard?"
"Oh dear, no," said Lord Warburton brazenly; "our talk had no such
solemn character as that."
"Well, you've been on your guard--intensely. I suppose it's natural
to you; that's just what I wanted to observe. And so, too, Miss
Molyneux--she wouldn't commit herself. You have been warned, anyway,"
Henrietta continued, addressing this young lady; "but for you it wasn't
necessary."
"I hope not," said Miss Molyneux vaguely.
"Miss Stackpole takes notes," Ralph soothingly explained. "She's a great
satirist; she sees through us all and she works us up."
"Well, I must say I never have had such a collection of bad material!"
Henrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord Warburton and from this
nobleman to his sister and to Ralph. "There's something the matter with
you all; you're as dismal as if you had got a bad cable."
"You do see through us, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph in a low tone,
giving her a little intelligent nod as he led the party out of the
gallery. "There's something the matter with us all."
Isabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedly liked her
immensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside her over the polished
floor. Lord Warburton strolled on the other side with his hands behind
him and his eyes lowered. For some moments he said nothing; and then,
"Is it true you're going to London?" he asked.
"I believe it has been arranged."
"And when shall you come back?"
"In a few days; but probably for a very short time. I'm going to Paris
with my aunt."
"When, then, shall I see you again?"
"Not for a good while," said Isabel. "But some day or other, I hope."
"Do you really hope it?"
"Very much."
He went a few steps in silence; then he stopped and put out his hand.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said Isabel.
Miss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart. After it,
without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own room; in
which apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs. Touchett, who had
stopped on her way to the salon. "I may as well tell you," said that
lady, "that your uncle has informed me of your relations with Lord
Warburton."
Isabel considered. "Relations? They're hardly relations. That's the
strange part of it: he has seen me but three or four times."
"Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?" Mrs. Touchett
dispassionately asked.
Again the girl hesitated. "Because he knows Lord Warburton better."
"Yes, but I know you better."
"I'm not sure of that," said Isabel, smiling.
"Neither am I, after all; especially when you give me that rather
conceited look. One would think you were awfully pleased with yourself
and had carried off a prize! I suppose that when you refuse an offer
like Lord Warburton's it's because you expect to do something better."
"Ah, my uncle didn't say that!" cried Isabel, smiling still.
| Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions. | analysis |
Madame Merle, who had come to Florence on Mrs. Touchett's arrival at
the invitation of this lady--Mrs. Touchett offering her for a month the
hospitality of Palazzo Crescentini--the judicious Madame Merle spoke to
Isabel afresh about Gilbert Osmond and expressed the hope she might know
him; making, however, no such point of the matter as we have seen her do
in recommending the girl herself to Mr. Osmond's attention. The reason
of this was perhaps that Isabel offered no resistance whatever to Madame
Merle's proposal. In Italy, as in England, the lady had a multitude of
friends, both among the natives of the country and its heterogeneous
visitors. She had mentioned to Isabel most of the people the girl would
find it well to "meet"--of course, she said, Isabel could know whomever
in the wide world she would--and had placed Mr. Osmond near the top of
the list. He was an old friend of her own; she had known him these dozen
years; he was one of the cleverest and most agreeable men--well, in
Europe simply. He was altogether above the respectable average; quite
another affair. He wasn't a professional charmer--far from it, and the
effect he produced depended a good deal on the state of his nerves and
his spirits. When not in the right mood he could fall as low as any one,
saved only by his looking at such hours rather like a demoralised prince
in exile. But if he cared or was interested or rightly challenged--just
exactly rightly it had to be--then one felt his cleverness and his
distinction. Those qualities didn't depend, in him, as in so many
people, on his not committing or exposing himself. He had his
perversities--which indeed Isabel would find to be the case with all the
men really worth knowing--and didn't cause his light to shine equally
for all persons. Madame Merle, however, thought she could undertake that
for Isabel he would be brilliant. He was easily bored, too easily, and
dull people always put him out; but a quick and cultivated girl like
Isabel would give him a stimulus which was too absent from his life. At
any rate he was a person not to miss. One shouldn't attempt to live in
Italy without making a friend of Gilbert Osmond, who knew more about the
country than any one except two or three German professors. And if
they had more knowledge than he it was he who had most perception and
taste--being artistic through and through. Isabel remembered that her
friend had spoken of him during their plunge, at Gardencourt, into the
deeps of talk, and wondered a little what was the nature of the tie
binding these superior spirits. She felt that Madame Merle's ties always
somehow had histories, and such an impression was part of the interest
created by this inordinate woman. As regards her relations with Mr.
Osmond, however, she hinted at nothing but a long-established calm
friendship. Isabel said she should be happy to know a person who had
enjoyed so high a confidence for so many years. "You ought to see a
great many men," Madame Merle remarked; "you ought to see as many as
possible, so as to get used to them."
"Used to them?" Isabel repeated with that solemn stare which sometimes
seemed to proclaim her deficient in the sense of comedy. "Why, I'm not
afraid of them--I'm as used to them as the cook to the butcher-boys."
"Used to them, I mean, so as to despise them. That's what one comes to
with most of them. You'll pick out, for your society, the few whom you
don't despise."
This was a note of cynicism that Madame Merle didn't often allow herself
to sound; but Isabel was not alarmed, for she had never supposed that
as one saw more of the world the sentiment of respect became the
most active of one's emotions. It was excited, none the less, by the
beautiful city of Florence, which pleased her not less than Madame Merle
had promised; and if her unassisted perception had not been able to
gauge its charms she had clever companions as priests to the mystery.
She was--in no want indeed of esthetic illumination, for Ralph found it
a joy that renewed his own early passion to act as cicerone to his
eager young kinswoman. Madame Merle remained at home; she had seen the
treasures of Florence again and again and had always something else
to do. But she talked of all things with remarkable vividness of
memory--she recalled the right-hand corner of the large Perugino and the
position of the hands of the Saint Elizabeth in the picture next to it.
She had her opinions as to the character of many famous works of art,
differing often from Ralph with great sharpness and defending her
interpretations with as much ingenuity as good-humour. Isabel listened
to the discussions taking place between the two with a sense that
she might derive much benefit from them and that they were among the
advantages she couldn't have enjoyed for instance in Albany. In the
clear May mornings before the formal breakfast--this repast at Mrs.
Touchett's was served at twelve o'clock--she wandered with her cousin
through the narrow and sombre Florentine streets, resting a while in
the thicker dusk of some historic church or the vaulted chambers of some
dispeopled convent. She went to the galleries and palaces; she looked at
the pictures and statues that had hitherto been great names to her,
and exchanged for a knowledge which was sometimes a limitation a
presentiment which proved usually to have been a blank. She performed
all those acts of mental prostration in which, on a first visit to
Italy, youth and enthusiasm so freely indulge; she felt her heart beat
in the presence of immortal genius and knew the sweetness of rising
tears in eyes to which faded fresco and darkened marble grew dim. But
the return, every day, was even pleasanter than the going forth; the
return into the wide, monumental court of the great house in which Mrs.
Touchett, many years before, had established herself, and into the
high, cool rooms where the carven rafters and pompous frescoes of the
sixteenth century looked down on the familiar commodities of the age of
advertisement. Mrs. Touchett inhabited an historic building in a narrow
street whose very name recalled the strife of medieval factions; and
found compensation for the darkness of her frontage in the modicity of
her rent and the brightness of a garden where nature itself looked as
archaic as the rugged architecture of the palace and which cleared
and scented the rooms in regular use. To live in such a place was, for
Isabel, to hold to her ear all day a shell of the sea of the past. This
vague eternal rumour kept her imagination awake.
Gilbert Osmond came to see Madame Merle, who presented him to the young
lady lurking at the other side of the room. Isabel took on this occasion
little part in the talk; she scarcely even smiled when the others turned
to her invitingly; she sat there as if she had been at the play and had
paid even a large sum for her place. Mrs. Touchett was not present, and
these two had it, for the effect of brilliancy, all their own way. They
talked of the Florentine, the Roman, the cosmopolite world, and might
have been distinguished performers figuring for a charity. It all had
the rich readiness that would have come from rehearsal. Madame Merle
appealed to her as if she had been on the stage, but she could ignore
any learnt cue without spoiling the scene--though of course she thus put
dreadfully in the wrong the friend who had told Mr. Osmond she could be
depended on. This was no matter for once; even if more had been involved
she could have made no attempt to shine. There was something in
the visitor that checked her and held her in suspense--made it more
important she should get an impression of him than that she should
produce one herself. Besides, she had little skill in producing an
impression which she knew to be expected: nothing could be happier, in
general, than to seem dazzling, but she had a perverse unwillingness to
glitter by arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to do him justice, had a well-bred
air of expecting nothing, a quiet ease that covered everything, even the
first show of his own wit. This was the more grateful as his face, his
head, was sensitive; he was not handsome, but he was fine, as fine as
one of the drawings in the long gallery above the bridge of the
Uffizi. And his very voice was fine--the more strangely that, with its
clearness, it yet somehow wasn't sweet. This had had really to do with
making her abstain from interference. His utterance was the vibration
of glass, and if she had put out her finger she might have changed the
pitch and spoiled the concert. Yet before he went she had to speak.
"Madame Merle," he said, "consents to come up to my hill-top some day
next week and drink tea in my garden. It would give me much pleasure if
you would come with her. It's thought rather pretty--there's what they
call a general view. My daughter too would be so glad--or rather, for
she's too young to have strong emotions, I should be so glad--so very
glad." And Mr. Osmond paused with a slight air of embarrassment, leaving
his sentence unfinished. "I should be so happy if you could know my
daughter," he went on a moment afterwards.
Isabel replied that she should be delighted to see Miss Osmond and that
if Madame Merle would show her the way to the hill-top she should be
very grateful. Upon this assurance the visitor took his leave; after
which Isabel fully expected her friend would scold her for having been
so stupid. But to her surprise that lady, who indeed never fell into the
mere matter-of-course, said to her in a few moments,
"You were charming, my dear; you were just as one would have wished you.
You're never disappointing."
A rebuke might possibly have been irritating, though it is much more
probable that Isabel would have taken it in good part; but, strange
to say, the words that Madame Merle actually used caused her the first
feeling of displeasure she had known this ally to excite. "That's more
than I intended," she answered coldly. "I'm under no obligation that I
know of to charm Mr. Osmond."
Madame Merle perceptibly flushed, but we know it was not her habit to
retract. "My dear child, I didn't speak for him, poor man; I spoke for
yourself. It's not of course a question as to his liking you; it matters
little whether he likes you or not! But I thought you liked HIM."
"I did," said Isabel honestly. "But I don't see what that matters
either."
"Everything that concerns you matters to me," Madame Merle returned
with her weary nobleness; "especially when at the same time another old
friend's concerned."
Whatever Isabel's obligations may have been to Mr. Osmond, it must be
admitted that she found them sufficient to lead her to put to Ralph
sundry questions about him. She thought Ralph's judgements distorted by
his trials, but she flattered herself she had learned to make allowance
for that.
"Do I know him?" said her cousin. "Oh, yes, I 'know' him; not well,
but on the whole enough. I've never cultivated his society, and he
apparently has never found mine indispensable to his happiness. Who is
he, what is he? He's a vague, unexplained American who has been living
these thirty years, or less, in Italy. Why do I call him unexplained?
Only as a cover for my ignorance; I don't know his antecedents, his
family, his origin. For all I do know he may be a prince in disguise; he
rather looks like one, by the way--like a prince who has abdicated in a
fit of fastidiousness and has been in a state of disgust ever since. He
used to live in Rome; but of late years he has taken up his abode here;
I remember hearing him say that Rome has grown vulgar. He has a great
dread of vulgarity; that's his special line; he hasn't any other that I
know of. He lives on his income, which I suspect of not being vulgarly
large. He's a poor but honest gentleman that's what he calls himself.
He married young and lost his wife, and I believe he has a daughter. He
also has a sister, who's married to some small Count or other, of these
parts; I remember meeting her of old. She's nicer than he, I should
think, but rather impossible. I remember there used to be some stories
about her. I don't think I recommend you to know her. But why don't you
ask Madame Merle about these people? She knows them all much better than
I."
"I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers," said Isabel.
"A fig for my opinion! If you fall in love with Mr. Osmond what will you
care for that?"
"Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain importance. The more
information one has about one's dangers the better."
"I don't agree to that--it may make them dangers. We know too much about
people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths,
are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything any one tells you
about any one else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself."
"That's what I try to do," said Isabel "but when you do that people call
you conceited."
"You're not to mind them--that's precisely my argument; not to mind what
they say about yourself any more than what they say about your friend or
your enemy."
Isabel considered. "I think you're right; but there are some things I
can't help minding: for instance when my friend's attacked or when I
myself am praised."
"Of course you're always at liberty to judge the critic. Judge people as
critics, however," Ralph added, "and you'll condemn them all!"
"I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself," said Isabel. "I've promised to pay
him a visit."
"To pay him a visit?"
"To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter--I don't know
exactly what. Madame Merle's to take me; she tells me a great many
ladies call on him."
"Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, de confiance," said Ralph.
"She knows none but the best people."
Isabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently remarked to her
cousin that she was not satisfied with his tone about Madame Merle. "It
seems to me you insinuate things about her. I don't know what you mean,
but if you've any grounds for disliking her I think you should either
mention them frankly or else say nothing at all."
Ralph, however, resented this charge with more apparent earnestness than
he commonly used. "I speak of Madame Merle exactly as I speak to her:
with an even exaggerated respect."
"Exaggerated, precisely. That's what I complain of."
"I do so because Madame Merle's merits are exaggerated."
"By whom, pray? By me? If so I do her a poor service."
"No, no; by herself."
"Ah, I protest!" Isabel earnestly cried. "If ever there was a woman who
made small claims--!"
"You put your finger on it," Ralph interrupted. "Her modesty's
exaggerated. She has no business with small claims--she has a perfect
right to make large ones."
"Her merits are large then. You contradict yourself."
"Her merits are immense," said Ralph. "She's indescribably blameless; a
pathless desert of virtue; the only woman I know who never gives one a
chance."
"A chance for what?"
"Well, say to call her a fool! She's the only woman I know who has but
that one little fault."
Isabel turned away with impatience. "I don't understand you; you're too
paradoxical for my plain mind."
"Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates I don't mean it in the
vulgar sense--that she boasts, overstates, gives too fine an account of
herself. I mean literally that she pushes the search for perfection too
far--that her merits are in themselves overstrained. She's too good, too
kind, too clever, too learned, too accomplished, too everything. She's
too complete, in a word. I confess to you that she acts on my nerves and
that I feel about her a good deal as that intensely human Athenian felt
about Aristides the Just."
Isabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if it lurked
in his words, failed on this occasion to peep from his face. "Do you
wish Madame Merle to be banished?"
"By no means. She's much too good company. I delight in Madame Merle,"
said Ralph Touchett simply.
"You're very odious, sir!" Isabel exclaimed. And then she asked him if
he knew anything that was not to the honour of her brilliant friend.
"Nothing whatever. Don't you see that's just what I mean? On the
character of every one else you may find some little black speck; if
I were to take half an hour to it, some day, I've no doubt I should be
able to find one on yours. For my own, of course, I'm spotted like a
leopard. But on Madame Merle's nothing, nothing, nothing!"
"That's just what I think!" said Isabel with a toss of her head. "That
is why I like her so much."
"She's a capital person for you to know. Since you wish to see the world
you couldn't have a better guide."
"I suppose you mean by that that she's worldly?"
"Worldly? No," said Ralph, "she's the great round world itself!"
It had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into her head to
believe, been a refinement of malice in him to say that he delighted in
Madame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his refreshment wherever he could find
it, and he would not have forgiven himself if he had been left wholly
unbeguiled by such a mistress of the social art. There are deep-lying
sympathies and antipathies, and it may have been that, in spite of the
administered justice she enjoyed at his hands, her absence from his
mother's house would not have made life barren to him. But Ralph
Touchett had learned more or less inscrutably to attend, and there could
have been nothing so "sustained" to attend to as the general performance
of Madame Merle. He tasted her in sips, he let her stand, with an
opportuneness she herself could not have surpassed. There were moments
when he felt almost sorry for her; and these, oddly enough, were the
moments when his kindness was least demonstrative. He was sure she had
been yearningly ambitious and that what she had visibly accomplished was
far below her secret measure. She had got herself into perfect training,
but had won none of the prizes. She was always plain Madame Merle,
the widow of a Swiss negociant, with a small income and a large
acquaintance, who stayed with people a great deal and was almost as
universally "liked" as some new volume of smooth twaddle. The contrast
between this position and any one of some half-dozen others that he
supposed to have at various moments engaged her hope had an element of
the tragical. His mother thought he got on beautifully with their genial
guest; to Mrs. Touchett's sense two persons who dealt so largely in
too-ingenious theories of conduct--that is of their own--would have much
in common. He had given due consideration to Isabel's intimacy with her
eminent friend, having long since made up his mind that he could not,
without opposition, keep his cousin to himself; and he made the best of
it, as he had done of worse things. He believed it would take care of
itself; it wouldn't last forever. Neither of these two superior persons
knew the other as well as she supposed, and when each had made an
important discovery or two there would be, if not a rupture, at least
a relaxation. Meanwhile he was quite willing to admit that the
conversation of the elder lady was an advantage to the younger, who had
a great deal to learn and would doubtless learn it better from Madame
Merle than from some other instructors of the young. It was not probable
that Isabel would be injured.
| At Mrs. Touchett's place, the Palazzo Crescenti in Florence, Merle comes to visit. She arranges for Isabel and Gilbert Osmond to meet. When Osmond visits the house, Isabel is uncharacteristically silent, finding it more important to get an accurate impression of him than she finds it important to produce her own impression of him. Osmond, in spite of Isabel's silence is interested in her. He invites her to visit his house with Madame Merle sometime. Isabel expects that Madame Merle will scold her for her silence and stupidity when Osmond leaves, but instead Merle tells her that she behaved just as she wished. Isabel feels displeasure at this comment, claiming that she is under no obligation to charm Mr. Osmond. Merle flushes at this. When Isabel asks Ralph about Osmond, Ralph only knows that he is a vague, unexplained American who has lived for thirty years in Italy. He knows that Osmond dreads the vulgar, but other than that he has no special talents. Isabel says that she wants to have more information about him because it is better to know about one's dangers. Ralph responds that knowing that much may actually make people more dangerous. He cautions her to judge for herself. Isabel has noticed that Ralph has something against Madame Merle. When she asks him what he thinks of her, he responds that he feels sorry for Madame Merle, that she was ambitious but unaccomplished. He finds her, in her overall aspect, to be an exaggerated person, never allowing others to have the chance to call her a fool. Ralph thinks to himself that Isabel's friendship with Madame Merle will not last forever, noting that neither person knew the other as well as she supposed. He believes that each will discover the true nature of the other | summary |
Madame Merle, who had come to Florence on Mrs. Touchett's arrival at
the invitation of this lady--Mrs. Touchett offering her for a month the
hospitality of Palazzo Crescentini--the judicious Madame Merle spoke to
Isabel afresh about Gilbert Osmond and expressed the hope she might know
him; making, however, no such point of the matter as we have seen her do
in recommending the girl herself to Mr. Osmond's attention. The reason
of this was perhaps that Isabel offered no resistance whatever to Madame
Merle's proposal. In Italy, as in England, the lady had a multitude of
friends, both among the natives of the country and its heterogeneous
visitors. She had mentioned to Isabel most of the people the girl would
find it well to "meet"--of course, she said, Isabel could know whomever
in the wide world she would--and had placed Mr. Osmond near the top of
the list. He was an old friend of her own; she had known him these dozen
years; he was one of the cleverest and most agreeable men--well, in
Europe simply. He was altogether above the respectable average; quite
another affair. He wasn't a professional charmer--far from it, and the
effect he produced depended a good deal on the state of his nerves and
his spirits. When not in the right mood he could fall as low as any one,
saved only by his looking at such hours rather like a demoralised prince
in exile. But if he cared or was interested or rightly challenged--just
exactly rightly it had to be--then one felt his cleverness and his
distinction. Those qualities didn't depend, in him, as in so many
people, on his not committing or exposing himself. He had his
perversities--which indeed Isabel would find to be the case with all the
men really worth knowing--and didn't cause his light to shine equally
for all persons. Madame Merle, however, thought she could undertake that
for Isabel he would be brilliant. He was easily bored, too easily, and
dull people always put him out; but a quick and cultivated girl like
Isabel would give him a stimulus which was too absent from his life. At
any rate he was a person not to miss. One shouldn't attempt to live in
Italy without making a friend of Gilbert Osmond, who knew more about the
country than any one except two or three German professors. And if
they had more knowledge than he it was he who had most perception and
taste--being artistic through and through. Isabel remembered that her
friend had spoken of him during their plunge, at Gardencourt, into the
deeps of talk, and wondered a little what was the nature of the tie
binding these superior spirits. She felt that Madame Merle's ties always
somehow had histories, and such an impression was part of the interest
created by this inordinate woman. As regards her relations with Mr.
Osmond, however, she hinted at nothing but a long-established calm
friendship. Isabel said she should be happy to know a person who had
enjoyed so high a confidence for so many years. "You ought to see a
great many men," Madame Merle remarked; "you ought to see as many as
possible, so as to get used to them."
"Used to them?" Isabel repeated with that solemn stare which sometimes
seemed to proclaim her deficient in the sense of comedy. "Why, I'm not
afraid of them--I'm as used to them as the cook to the butcher-boys."
"Used to them, I mean, so as to despise them. That's what one comes to
with most of them. You'll pick out, for your society, the few whom you
don't despise."
This was a note of cynicism that Madame Merle didn't often allow herself
to sound; but Isabel was not alarmed, for she had never supposed that
as one saw more of the world the sentiment of respect became the
most active of one's emotions. It was excited, none the less, by the
beautiful city of Florence, which pleased her not less than Madame Merle
had promised; and if her unassisted perception had not been able to
gauge its charms she had clever companions as priests to the mystery.
She was--in no want indeed of esthetic illumination, for Ralph found it
a joy that renewed his own early passion to act as cicerone to his
eager young kinswoman. Madame Merle remained at home; she had seen the
treasures of Florence again and again and had always something else
to do. But she talked of all things with remarkable vividness of
memory--she recalled the right-hand corner of the large Perugino and the
position of the hands of the Saint Elizabeth in the picture next to it.
She had her opinions as to the character of many famous works of art,
differing often from Ralph with great sharpness and defending her
interpretations with as much ingenuity as good-humour. Isabel listened
to the discussions taking place between the two with a sense that
she might derive much benefit from them and that they were among the
advantages she couldn't have enjoyed for instance in Albany. In the
clear May mornings before the formal breakfast--this repast at Mrs.
Touchett's was served at twelve o'clock--she wandered with her cousin
through the narrow and sombre Florentine streets, resting a while in
the thicker dusk of some historic church or the vaulted chambers of some
dispeopled convent. She went to the galleries and palaces; she looked at
the pictures and statues that had hitherto been great names to her,
and exchanged for a knowledge which was sometimes a limitation a
presentiment which proved usually to have been a blank. She performed
all those acts of mental prostration in which, on a first visit to
Italy, youth and enthusiasm so freely indulge; she felt her heart beat
in the presence of immortal genius and knew the sweetness of rising
tears in eyes to which faded fresco and darkened marble grew dim. But
the return, every day, was even pleasanter than the going forth; the
return into the wide, monumental court of the great house in which Mrs.
Touchett, many years before, had established herself, and into the
high, cool rooms where the carven rafters and pompous frescoes of the
sixteenth century looked down on the familiar commodities of the age of
advertisement. Mrs. Touchett inhabited an historic building in a narrow
street whose very name recalled the strife of medieval factions; and
found compensation for the darkness of her frontage in the modicity of
her rent and the brightness of a garden where nature itself looked as
archaic as the rugged architecture of the palace and which cleared
and scented the rooms in regular use. To live in such a place was, for
Isabel, to hold to her ear all day a shell of the sea of the past. This
vague eternal rumour kept her imagination awake.
Gilbert Osmond came to see Madame Merle, who presented him to the young
lady lurking at the other side of the room. Isabel took on this occasion
little part in the talk; she scarcely even smiled when the others turned
to her invitingly; she sat there as if she had been at the play and had
paid even a large sum for her place. Mrs. Touchett was not present, and
these two had it, for the effect of brilliancy, all their own way. They
talked of the Florentine, the Roman, the cosmopolite world, and might
have been distinguished performers figuring for a charity. It all had
the rich readiness that would have come from rehearsal. Madame Merle
appealed to her as if she had been on the stage, but she could ignore
any learnt cue without spoiling the scene--though of course she thus put
dreadfully in the wrong the friend who had told Mr. Osmond she could be
depended on. This was no matter for once; even if more had been involved
she could have made no attempt to shine. There was something in
the visitor that checked her and held her in suspense--made it more
important she should get an impression of him than that she should
produce one herself. Besides, she had little skill in producing an
impression which she knew to be expected: nothing could be happier, in
general, than to seem dazzling, but she had a perverse unwillingness to
glitter by arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to do him justice, had a well-bred
air of expecting nothing, a quiet ease that covered everything, even the
first show of his own wit. This was the more grateful as his face, his
head, was sensitive; he was not handsome, but he was fine, as fine as
one of the drawings in the long gallery above the bridge of the
Uffizi. And his very voice was fine--the more strangely that, with its
clearness, it yet somehow wasn't sweet. This had had really to do with
making her abstain from interference. His utterance was the vibration
of glass, and if she had put out her finger she might have changed the
pitch and spoiled the concert. Yet before he went she had to speak.
"Madame Merle," he said, "consents to come up to my hill-top some day
next week and drink tea in my garden. It would give me much pleasure if
you would come with her. It's thought rather pretty--there's what they
call a general view. My daughter too would be so glad--or rather, for
she's too young to have strong emotions, I should be so glad--so very
glad." And Mr. Osmond paused with a slight air of embarrassment, leaving
his sentence unfinished. "I should be so happy if you could know my
daughter," he went on a moment afterwards.
Isabel replied that she should be delighted to see Miss Osmond and that
if Madame Merle would show her the way to the hill-top she should be
very grateful. Upon this assurance the visitor took his leave; after
which Isabel fully expected her friend would scold her for having been
so stupid. But to her surprise that lady, who indeed never fell into the
mere matter-of-course, said to her in a few moments,
"You were charming, my dear; you were just as one would have wished you.
You're never disappointing."
A rebuke might possibly have been irritating, though it is much more
probable that Isabel would have taken it in good part; but, strange
to say, the words that Madame Merle actually used caused her the first
feeling of displeasure she had known this ally to excite. "That's more
than I intended," she answered coldly. "I'm under no obligation that I
know of to charm Mr. Osmond."
Madame Merle perceptibly flushed, but we know it was not her habit to
retract. "My dear child, I didn't speak for him, poor man; I spoke for
yourself. It's not of course a question as to his liking you; it matters
little whether he likes you or not! But I thought you liked HIM."
"I did," said Isabel honestly. "But I don't see what that matters
either."
"Everything that concerns you matters to me," Madame Merle returned
with her weary nobleness; "especially when at the same time another old
friend's concerned."
Whatever Isabel's obligations may have been to Mr. Osmond, it must be
admitted that she found them sufficient to lead her to put to Ralph
sundry questions about him. She thought Ralph's judgements distorted by
his trials, but she flattered herself she had learned to make allowance
for that.
"Do I know him?" said her cousin. "Oh, yes, I 'know' him; not well,
but on the whole enough. I've never cultivated his society, and he
apparently has never found mine indispensable to his happiness. Who is
he, what is he? He's a vague, unexplained American who has been living
these thirty years, or less, in Italy. Why do I call him unexplained?
Only as a cover for my ignorance; I don't know his antecedents, his
family, his origin. For all I do know he may be a prince in disguise; he
rather looks like one, by the way--like a prince who has abdicated in a
fit of fastidiousness and has been in a state of disgust ever since. He
used to live in Rome; but of late years he has taken up his abode here;
I remember hearing him say that Rome has grown vulgar. He has a great
dread of vulgarity; that's his special line; he hasn't any other that I
know of. He lives on his income, which I suspect of not being vulgarly
large. He's a poor but honest gentleman that's what he calls himself.
He married young and lost his wife, and I believe he has a daughter. He
also has a sister, who's married to some small Count or other, of these
parts; I remember meeting her of old. She's nicer than he, I should
think, but rather impossible. I remember there used to be some stories
about her. I don't think I recommend you to know her. But why don't you
ask Madame Merle about these people? She knows them all much better than
I."
"I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers," said Isabel.
"A fig for my opinion! If you fall in love with Mr. Osmond what will you
care for that?"
"Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain importance. The more
information one has about one's dangers the better."
"I don't agree to that--it may make them dangers. We know too much about
people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths,
are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything any one tells you
about any one else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself."
"That's what I try to do," said Isabel "but when you do that people call
you conceited."
"You're not to mind them--that's precisely my argument; not to mind what
they say about yourself any more than what they say about your friend or
your enemy."
Isabel considered. "I think you're right; but there are some things I
can't help minding: for instance when my friend's attacked or when I
myself am praised."
"Of course you're always at liberty to judge the critic. Judge people as
critics, however," Ralph added, "and you'll condemn them all!"
"I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself," said Isabel. "I've promised to pay
him a visit."
"To pay him a visit?"
"To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter--I don't know
exactly what. Madame Merle's to take me; she tells me a great many
ladies call on him."
"Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, de confiance," said Ralph.
"She knows none but the best people."
Isabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently remarked to her
cousin that she was not satisfied with his tone about Madame Merle. "It
seems to me you insinuate things about her. I don't know what you mean,
but if you've any grounds for disliking her I think you should either
mention them frankly or else say nothing at all."
Ralph, however, resented this charge with more apparent earnestness than
he commonly used. "I speak of Madame Merle exactly as I speak to her:
with an even exaggerated respect."
"Exaggerated, precisely. That's what I complain of."
"I do so because Madame Merle's merits are exaggerated."
"By whom, pray? By me? If so I do her a poor service."
"No, no; by herself."
"Ah, I protest!" Isabel earnestly cried. "If ever there was a woman who
made small claims--!"
"You put your finger on it," Ralph interrupted. "Her modesty's
exaggerated. She has no business with small claims--she has a perfect
right to make large ones."
"Her merits are large then. You contradict yourself."
"Her merits are immense," said Ralph. "She's indescribably blameless; a
pathless desert of virtue; the only woman I know who never gives one a
chance."
"A chance for what?"
"Well, say to call her a fool! She's the only woman I know who has but
that one little fault."
Isabel turned away with impatience. "I don't understand you; you're too
paradoxical for my plain mind."
"Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates I don't mean it in the
vulgar sense--that she boasts, overstates, gives too fine an account of
herself. I mean literally that she pushes the search for perfection too
far--that her merits are in themselves overstrained. She's too good, too
kind, too clever, too learned, too accomplished, too everything. She's
too complete, in a word. I confess to you that she acts on my nerves and
that I feel about her a good deal as that intensely human Athenian felt
about Aristides the Just."
Isabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if it lurked
in his words, failed on this occasion to peep from his face. "Do you
wish Madame Merle to be banished?"
"By no means. She's much too good company. I delight in Madame Merle,"
said Ralph Touchett simply.
"You're very odious, sir!" Isabel exclaimed. And then she asked him if
he knew anything that was not to the honour of her brilliant friend.
"Nothing whatever. Don't you see that's just what I mean? On the
character of every one else you may find some little black speck; if
I were to take half an hour to it, some day, I've no doubt I should be
able to find one on yours. For my own, of course, I'm spotted like a
leopard. But on Madame Merle's nothing, nothing, nothing!"
"That's just what I think!" said Isabel with a toss of her head. "That
is why I like her so much."
"She's a capital person for you to know. Since you wish to see the world
you couldn't have a better guide."
"I suppose you mean by that that she's worldly?"
"Worldly? No," said Ralph, "she's the great round world itself!"
It had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into her head to
believe, been a refinement of malice in him to say that he delighted in
Madame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his refreshment wherever he could find
it, and he would not have forgiven himself if he had been left wholly
unbeguiled by such a mistress of the social art. There are deep-lying
sympathies and antipathies, and it may have been that, in spite of the
administered justice she enjoyed at his hands, her absence from his
mother's house would not have made life barren to him. But Ralph
Touchett had learned more or less inscrutably to attend, and there could
have been nothing so "sustained" to attend to as the general performance
of Madame Merle. He tasted her in sips, he let her stand, with an
opportuneness she herself could not have surpassed. There were moments
when he felt almost sorry for her; and these, oddly enough, were the
moments when his kindness was least demonstrative. He was sure she had
been yearningly ambitious and that what she had visibly accomplished was
far below her secret measure. She had got herself into perfect training,
but had won none of the prizes. She was always plain Madame Merle,
the widow of a Swiss negociant, with a small income and a large
acquaintance, who stayed with people a great deal and was almost as
universally "liked" as some new volume of smooth twaddle. The contrast
between this position and any one of some half-dozen others that he
supposed to have at various moments engaged her hope had an element of
the tragical. His mother thought he got on beautifully with their genial
guest; to Mrs. Touchett's sense two persons who dealt so largely in
too-ingenious theories of conduct--that is of their own--would have much
in common. He had given due consideration to Isabel's intimacy with her
eminent friend, having long since made up his mind that he could not,
without opposition, keep his cousin to himself; and he made the best of
it, as he had done of worse things. He believed it would take care of
itself; it wouldn't last forever. Neither of these two superior persons
knew the other as well as she supposed, and when each had made an
important discovery or two there would be, if not a rupture, at least
a relaxation. Meanwhile he was quite willing to admit that the
conversation of the elder lady was an advantage to the younger, who had
a great deal to learn and would doubtless learn it better from Madame
Merle than from some other instructors of the young. It was not probable
that Isabel would be injured.
| Gilbert Osmond is described as an aesthete. He has impeccable taste, but there seems to be something substantially lacking in him. His house is described in very sinister terms: it is a surface, just a "face" that bars communication with the outside. The architecture and style of his house is a symbol of Osmond's own personality. He is superficial and heartless, but appears to be very cultured. His relationship to his daughter is somewhat odd, because the daughter seems to admire him very much, even though he is not a very warm person. James' description of Osmond as a "coin" that is not in the general circulation is a hint at Osmond's own relation to commodities: he is a selfish hoarder, and has no interest in the communicative aspects of style. The conversation between Merle and Osmond suggests a very intimate nature of their relationship, although why exactly this is the case is left obscure. They seem to be antagonistic in some respects, exchanging insults, but they are also very forthright with each other. They seem to both know each other too intimately, and the suggestion is that they typically do not allow others to have true knowledge of their character. It is unclear why Merle would want Isabel to marry Osmond, since she thinks highly of Isabel and she thinks Osmond is heartless. There is something sinister about Merle's dealings, especially because she declares that she does not know what Isabel is good for, but she only knows what she can "do with them." She makes it sound as if she will use Isabel for some purpose of her own, but we do not know how her plan of getting Isabel and Osmond to marry will benefit her. Isabel is uncharacteristically silent and un-opinionated when she meets Osmond. She is more interested in gaining an accurate impression of him than of forming her own opinion of him -- this seems to be the exact opposite of her usual approach to people. This foreshadows to us that Osmond will be perceived differently than all her other suitors. Why though, is Isabel so reticent when she meets him? Ralph insinuates that Isabel's abundance of second-hand knowledge on his character is the reason she is so interested in him. It seems that Madame Merle has exploited Isabel's imaginative possibilities: the more Isabel thinks she "knows" the less she is able to experience for herself. This brings up an interesting theme that Henry James treats in other of his novels: What is the relationship between knowledge and experience? Does having knowledge of something prejudice us towards the way we experience it? Can one have an experience without having knowledge or prejudice about that thing? His short novel, What Maisie Knew, is one of his more extended explorations of this theme. | analysis |
While this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some time after
we cease to follow it) went forward Madame Merle and her companion,
breaking a silence of some duration, had begun to exchange remarks.
They were sitting in an attitude of unexpressed expectancy; an attitude
especially marked on the part of the Countess Gemini, who, being of a
more nervous temperament than her friend, practised with less success
the art of disguising impatience. What these ladies were waiting for
would not have been apparent and was perhaps not very definite to their
own minds. Madame Merle waited for Osmond to release their young friend
from her tete-a-tete, and the Countess waited because Madame Merle did.
The Countess, moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for one of her
pretty perversities. She might have desired for some minutes to place
it. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the end of the garden, to which
point her eyes followed them.
"My dear," she then observed to her companion, "you'll excuse me if I
don't congratulate you!"
"Very willingly, for I don't in the least know why you should."
"Haven't you a little plan that you think rather well of?" And the
Countess nodded at the sequestered couple.
Madame Merle's eyes took the same direction; then she looked serenely at
her neighbour. "You know I never understand you very well," she smiled.
"No one can understand better than you when you wish. I see that just
now you DON'T wish."
"You say things to me that no one else does," said Madame Merle gravely,
yet without bitterness.
"You mean things you don't like? Doesn't Osmond sometimes say such
things?"
"What your brother says has a point."
"Yes, a poisoned one sometimes. If you mean that I'm not so clever as he
you mustn't think I shall suffer from your sense of our difference. But
it will be much better that you should understand me."
"Why so?" asked Madame Merle. "To what will it conduce?"
"If I don't approve of your plan you ought to know it in order to
appreciate the danger of my interfering with it."
Madame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that there might be
something in this; but in a moment she said quietly: "You think me more
calculating than I am."
"It's not your calculating I think ill of; it's your calculating wrong.
You've done so in this case."
"You must have made extensive calculations yourself to discover that."
"No, I've not had time. I've seen the girl but this once," said the
Countess, "and the conviction has suddenly come to me. I like her very
much."
"So do I," Madame Merle mentioned.
"You've a strange way of showing it."
"Surely I've given her the advantage of making your acquaintance."
"That indeed," piped the Countess, "is perhaps the best thing that could
happen to her!"
Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess's manner was
odious, was really low; but it was an old story, and with her eyes upon
the violet slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up to reflection. "My
dear lady," she finally resumed, "I advise you not to agitate yourself.
The matter you allude to concerns three persons much stronger of purpose
than yourself."
"Three persons? You and Osmond of course. But is Miss Archer also very
strong of purpose?"
"Quite as much so as we."
"Ah then," said the Countess radiantly, "if I convince her it's her
interest to resist you she'll do so successfully!"
"Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She's not exposed
to compulsion or deception."
"I'm not sure of that. You're capable of anything, you and Osmond. I
don't mean Osmond by himself, and I don't mean you by yourself. But
together you're dangerous--like some chemical combination."
"You had better leave us alone then," smiled Madame Merle.
"I don't mean to touch you--but I shall talk to that girl."
"My poor Amy," Madame Merle murmured, "I don't see what has got into
your head."
"I take an interest in her--that's what has got into my head. I like
her."
Madame Merle hesitated a moment. "I don't think she likes you."
The Countess's bright little eyes expanded and her face was set in a
grimace. "Ah, you ARE dangerous--even by yourself!"
"If you want her to like you don't abuse your brother to her," said
Madame Merle.
"I don't suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him in two
interviews."
Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master of the house.
He was leaning against the parapet, facing her, his arms folded; and
she at present was evidently not lost in the mere impersonal view,
persistently as she gazed at it. As Madame Merle watched her she lowered
her eyes; she was listening, possibly with a certain embarrassment,
while she pressed the point of her parasol into the path. Madame Merle
rose from her chair. "Yes, I think so!" she pronounced.
The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy--he might, tarnished as to livery
and quaint as to type, have issued from some stray sketch of old-time
manners, been "put in" by the brush of a Longhi or a Goya--had come out
with a small table and placed it on the grass, and then had gone back
and fetched the tea-tray; after which he had again disappeared, to
return with a couple of chairs. Pansy had watched these proceedings with
the deepest interest, standing with her small hands folded together
upon the front of her scanty frock; but she had not presumed to offer
assistance. When the tea-table had been arranged, however, she gently
approached her aunt.
"Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?"
The Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze and without
answering her question. "My poor niece," she said, "is that your best
frock?"
"Ah no," Pansy answered, "it's just a little toilette for common
occasions."
"Do you call it a common occasion when I come to see you?--to say
nothing of Madame Merle and the pretty lady yonder."
Pansy reflected a moment, turning gravely from one of the persons
mentioned to the other. Then her face broke into its perfect smile.
"I have a pretty dress, but even that one's very simple. Why should I
expose it beside your beautiful things?"
"Because it's the prettiest you have; for me you must always wear the
prettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems to me they don't
dress you so well as they might."
The child sparingly stroked down her antiquated skirt. "It's a good
little dress to make tea--don't you think? Don't you believe papa would
allow me?"
"Impossible for me to say, my child," said the Countess. "For me, your
father's ideas are unfathomable. Madame Merle understands them better.
Ask HER."
Madame Merle smiled with her usual grace. "It's a weighty question--let
me think. It seems to me it would please your father to see a careful
little daughter making his tea. It's the proper duty of the daughter of
the house--when she grows up."
"So it seems to me, Madame Merle!" Pansy cried. "You shall see how well
I'll make it. A spoonful for each." And she began to busy herself at the
table.
"Two spoonfuls for me," said the Countess, who, with Madame Merle,
remained for some moments watching her. "Listen to me, Pansy," the
Countess resumed at last. "I should like to know what you think of your
visitor."
"Ah, she's not mine--she's papa's," Pansy objected.
"Miss Archer came to see you as well," said Madame Merle.
"I'm very happy to hear that. She has been very polite to me."
"Do you like her then?" the Countess asked.
"She's charming--charming," Pansy repeated in her little neat
conversational tone. "She pleases me thoroughly."
"And how do you think she pleases your father?"
"Ah really, Countess!" murmured Madame Merle dissuasively. "Go and call
them to tea," she went on to the child.
"You'll see if they don't like it!" Pansy declared; and departed to
summon the others, who had still lingered at the end of the terrace.
"If Miss Archer's to become her mother it's surely interesting to know
if the child likes her," said the Countess.
"If your brother marries again it won't be for Pansy's sake," Madame
Merle replied. "She'll soon be sixteen, and after that she'll begin to
need a husband rather than a stepmother."
"And will you provide the husband as well?"
"I shall certainly take an interest in her marrying fortunately. I
imagine you'll do the same."
"Indeed I shan't!" cried the Countess. "Why should I, of all women, set
such a price on a husband?"
"You didn't marry fortunately; that's what I'm speaking of. When I say a
husband I mean a good one."
"There are no good ones. Osmond won't be a good one."
Madame Merle closed her eyes a moment. "You're irritated just now; I
don't know why," she presently said. "I don't think you'll really object
either to your brother's or to your niece's marrying, when the time
comes for them to do so; and as regards Pansy I'm confident that we
shall some day have the pleasure of looking for a husband for her
together. Your large acquaintance will be a great help."
"Yes, I'm irritated," the Countess answered. "You often irritate me.
Your own coolness is fabulous. You're a strange woman."
"It's much better that we should always act together," Madame Merle went
on.
"Do you mean that as a threat?" asked the Countess rising. Madame
Merle shook her head as for quiet amusement. "No indeed, you've not my
coolness!"
Isabel and Mr. Osmond were now slowly coming toward them and Isabel
had taken Pansy by the hand. "Do you pretend to believe he'd make her
happy?" the Countess demanded.
"If he should marry Miss Archer I suppose he'd behave like a gentleman."
The Countess jerked herself into a succession of attitudes. "Do you
mean as most gentlemen behave? That would be much to be thankful for! Of
course Osmond's a gentleman; his own sister needn't be reminded of that.
But does he think he can marry any girl he happens to pick out? Osmond's
a gentleman, of course; but I must say I've NEVER, no, no, never, seen
any one of Osmond's pretensions! What they're all founded on is more
than I can say. I'm his own sister; I might be supposed to know. Who
is he, if you please? What has he ever done? If there had been anything
particularly grand in his origin--if he were made of some superior
clay--I presume I should have got some inkling of it. If there had been
any great honours or splendours in the family I should certainly have
made the most of them: they would have been quite in my line. But
there's nothing, nothing, nothing. One's parents were charming people of
course; but so were yours, I've no doubt. Every one's a charming person
nowadays. Even I'm a charming person; don't laugh, it has literally
been said. As for Osmond, he has always appeared to believe that he's
descended from the gods."
"You may say what you please," said Madame Merle, who had listened to
this quick outbreak none the less attentively, we may believe, because
her eye wandered away from the speaker and her hands busied themselves
with adjusting the knots of ribbon on her dress. "You Osmonds are a fine
race--your blood must flow from some very pure source. Your brother,
like an intelligent man, has had the conviction of it if he has not
had the proofs. You're modest about it, but you yourself are extremely
distinguished. What do you say about your niece? The child's a little
princess. Nevertheless," Madame Merle added, "it won't be an easy matter
for Osmond to marry Miss Archer. Yet he can try."
"I hope she'll refuse him. It will take him down a little."
"We mustn't forget that he is one of the cleverest of men."
"I've heard you say that before, but I haven't yet discovered what he
has done."
"What he has done? He has done nothing that has had to be undone. And he
has known how to wait."
"To wait for Miss Archer's money? How much of it is there?"
"That's not what I mean," said Madame Merle. "Miss Archer has seventy
thousand pounds."
"Well, it's a pity she's so charming," the Countess declared. "To be
sacrificed, any girl would do. She needn't be superior."
"If she weren't superior your brother would never look at her. He must
have the best."
"Yes," returned the Countess as they went forward a little to meet
the others, "he's very hard to satisfy. That makes me tremble for her
happiness!"
| Meanwhile, Madame Merle and Countess Gemini's conversation, occurring at the same time as Isabel and Osmond's conversation, is recounted. Countess Gemini declares that she does not approve of Madame Merle's plan. Madame Merle claims that she has no plan, and that she is not calculating. Countess Gemini declares that she will thwart Merle and Osmond's plan, warning Isabel of her brother's character. Merle warns her that this will simply backfire, and Isabel will dislike Gemini. Merle believes that Isabel has already fallen in love with Osmond, after only two meetings. Madame Merle has Pansy make some tea, and Pansy is very eager to please. Merle and Gemini continue the discussion. Countess Gemini asks Merle if she thinks Osmond will make Isabel happy, and Merle responds that he would at least behave like a gentleman. Merle informs the countess that Isabel has seventy thousand pounds, and Countess Gemini responds by saying that it is a pity that such a charming girl needs to be sacrificed | summary |
While this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some time after
we cease to follow it) went forward Madame Merle and her companion,
breaking a silence of some duration, had begun to exchange remarks.
They were sitting in an attitude of unexpressed expectancy; an attitude
especially marked on the part of the Countess Gemini, who, being of a
more nervous temperament than her friend, practised with less success
the art of disguising impatience. What these ladies were waiting for
would not have been apparent and was perhaps not very definite to their
own minds. Madame Merle waited for Osmond to release their young friend
from her tete-a-tete, and the Countess waited because Madame Merle did.
The Countess, moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for one of her
pretty perversities. She might have desired for some minutes to place
it. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the end of the garden, to which
point her eyes followed them.
"My dear," she then observed to her companion, "you'll excuse me if I
don't congratulate you!"
"Very willingly, for I don't in the least know why you should."
"Haven't you a little plan that you think rather well of?" And the
Countess nodded at the sequestered couple.
Madame Merle's eyes took the same direction; then she looked serenely at
her neighbour. "You know I never understand you very well," she smiled.
"No one can understand better than you when you wish. I see that just
now you DON'T wish."
"You say things to me that no one else does," said Madame Merle gravely,
yet without bitterness.
"You mean things you don't like? Doesn't Osmond sometimes say such
things?"
"What your brother says has a point."
"Yes, a poisoned one sometimes. If you mean that I'm not so clever as he
you mustn't think I shall suffer from your sense of our difference. But
it will be much better that you should understand me."
"Why so?" asked Madame Merle. "To what will it conduce?"
"If I don't approve of your plan you ought to know it in order to
appreciate the danger of my interfering with it."
Madame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that there might be
something in this; but in a moment she said quietly: "You think me more
calculating than I am."
"It's not your calculating I think ill of; it's your calculating wrong.
You've done so in this case."
"You must have made extensive calculations yourself to discover that."
"No, I've not had time. I've seen the girl but this once," said the
Countess, "and the conviction has suddenly come to me. I like her very
much."
"So do I," Madame Merle mentioned.
"You've a strange way of showing it."
"Surely I've given her the advantage of making your acquaintance."
"That indeed," piped the Countess, "is perhaps the best thing that could
happen to her!"
Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess's manner was
odious, was really low; but it was an old story, and with her eyes upon
the violet slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up to reflection. "My
dear lady," she finally resumed, "I advise you not to agitate yourself.
The matter you allude to concerns three persons much stronger of purpose
than yourself."
"Three persons? You and Osmond of course. But is Miss Archer also very
strong of purpose?"
"Quite as much so as we."
"Ah then," said the Countess radiantly, "if I convince her it's her
interest to resist you she'll do so successfully!"
"Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She's not exposed
to compulsion or deception."
"I'm not sure of that. You're capable of anything, you and Osmond. I
don't mean Osmond by himself, and I don't mean you by yourself. But
together you're dangerous--like some chemical combination."
"You had better leave us alone then," smiled Madame Merle.
"I don't mean to touch you--but I shall talk to that girl."
"My poor Amy," Madame Merle murmured, "I don't see what has got into
your head."
"I take an interest in her--that's what has got into my head. I like
her."
Madame Merle hesitated a moment. "I don't think she likes you."
The Countess's bright little eyes expanded and her face was set in a
grimace. "Ah, you ARE dangerous--even by yourself!"
"If you want her to like you don't abuse your brother to her," said
Madame Merle.
"I don't suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him in two
interviews."
Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master of the house.
He was leaning against the parapet, facing her, his arms folded; and
she at present was evidently not lost in the mere impersonal view,
persistently as she gazed at it. As Madame Merle watched her she lowered
her eyes; she was listening, possibly with a certain embarrassment,
while she pressed the point of her parasol into the path. Madame Merle
rose from her chair. "Yes, I think so!" she pronounced.
The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy--he might, tarnished as to livery
and quaint as to type, have issued from some stray sketch of old-time
manners, been "put in" by the brush of a Longhi or a Goya--had come out
with a small table and placed it on the grass, and then had gone back
and fetched the tea-tray; after which he had again disappeared, to
return with a couple of chairs. Pansy had watched these proceedings with
the deepest interest, standing with her small hands folded together
upon the front of her scanty frock; but she had not presumed to offer
assistance. When the tea-table had been arranged, however, she gently
approached her aunt.
"Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?"
The Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze and without
answering her question. "My poor niece," she said, "is that your best
frock?"
"Ah no," Pansy answered, "it's just a little toilette for common
occasions."
"Do you call it a common occasion when I come to see you?--to say
nothing of Madame Merle and the pretty lady yonder."
Pansy reflected a moment, turning gravely from one of the persons
mentioned to the other. Then her face broke into its perfect smile.
"I have a pretty dress, but even that one's very simple. Why should I
expose it beside your beautiful things?"
"Because it's the prettiest you have; for me you must always wear the
prettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems to me they don't
dress you so well as they might."
The child sparingly stroked down her antiquated skirt. "It's a good
little dress to make tea--don't you think? Don't you believe papa would
allow me?"
"Impossible for me to say, my child," said the Countess. "For me, your
father's ideas are unfathomable. Madame Merle understands them better.
Ask HER."
Madame Merle smiled with her usual grace. "It's a weighty question--let
me think. It seems to me it would please your father to see a careful
little daughter making his tea. It's the proper duty of the daughter of
the house--when she grows up."
"So it seems to me, Madame Merle!" Pansy cried. "You shall see how well
I'll make it. A spoonful for each." And she began to busy herself at the
table.
"Two spoonfuls for me," said the Countess, who, with Madame Merle,
remained for some moments watching her. "Listen to me, Pansy," the
Countess resumed at last. "I should like to know what you think of your
visitor."
"Ah, she's not mine--she's papa's," Pansy objected.
"Miss Archer came to see you as well," said Madame Merle.
"I'm very happy to hear that. She has been very polite to me."
"Do you like her then?" the Countess asked.
"She's charming--charming," Pansy repeated in her little neat
conversational tone. "She pleases me thoroughly."
"And how do you think she pleases your father?"
"Ah really, Countess!" murmured Madame Merle dissuasively. "Go and call
them to tea," she went on to the child.
"You'll see if they don't like it!" Pansy declared; and departed to
summon the others, who had still lingered at the end of the terrace.
"If Miss Archer's to become her mother it's surely interesting to know
if the child likes her," said the Countess.
"If your brother marries again it won't be for Pansy's sake," Madame
Merle replied. "She'll soon be sixteen, and after that she'll begin to
need a husband rather than a stepmother."
"And will you provide the husband as well?"
"I shall certainly take an interest in her marrying fortunately. I
imagine you'll do the same."
"Indeed I shan't!" cried the Countess. "Why should I, of all women, set
such a price on a husband?"
"You didn't marry fortunately; that's what I'm speaking of. When I say a
husband I mean a good one."
"There are no good ones. Osmond won't be a good one."
Madame Merle closed her eyes a moment. "You're irritated just now; I
don't know why," she presently said. "I don't think you'll really object
either to your brother's or to your niece's marrying, when the time
comes for them to do so; and as regards Pansy I'm confident that we
shall some day have the pleasure of looking for a husband for her
together. Your large acquaintance will be a great help."
"Yes, I'm irritated," the Countess answered. "You often irritate me.
Your own coolness is fabulous. You're a strange woman."
"It's much better that we should always act together," Madame Merle went
on.
"Do you mean that as a threat?" asked the Countess rising. Madame
Merle shook her head as for quiet amusement. "No indeed, you've not my
coolness!"
Isabel and Mr. Osmond were now slowly coming toward them and Isabel
had taken Pansy by the hand. "Do you pretend to believe he'd make her
happy?" the Countess demanded.
"If he should marry Miss Archer I suppose he'd behave like a gentleman."
The Countess jerked herself into a succession of attitudes. "Do you
mean as most gentlemen behave? That would be much to be thankful for! Of
course Osmond's a gentleman; his own sister needn't be reminded of that.
But does he think he can marry any girl he happens to pick out? Osmond's
a gentleman, of course; but I must say I've NEVER, no, no, never, seen
any one of Osmond's pretensions! What they're all founded on is more
than I can say. I'm his own sister; I might be supposed to know. Who
is he, if you please? What has he ever done? If there had been anything
particularly grand in his origin--if he were made of some superior
clay--I presume I should have got some inkling of it. If there had been
any great honours or splendours in the family I should certainly have
made the most of them: they would have been quite in my line. But
there's nothing, nothing, nothing. One's parents were charming people of
course; but so were yours, I've no doubt. Every one's a charming person
nowadays. Even I'm a charming person; don't laugh, it has literally
been said. As for Osmond, he has always appeared to believe that he's
descended from the gods."
"You may say what you please," said Madame Merle, who had listened to
this quick outbreak none the less attentively, we may believe, because
her eye wandered away from the speaker and her hands busied themselves
with adjusting the knots of ribbon on her dress. "You Osmonds are a fine
race--your blood must flow from some very pure source. Your brother,
like an intelligent man, has had the conviction of it if he has not
had the proofs. You're modest about it, but you yourself are extremely
distinguished. What do you say about your niece? The child's a little
princess. Nevertheless," Madame Merle added, "it won't be an easy matter
for Osmond to marry Miss Archer. Yet he can try."
"I hope she'll refuse him. It will take him down a little."
"We mustn't forget that he is one of the cleverest of men."
"I've heard you say that before, but I haven't yet discovered what he
has done."
"What he has done? He has done nothing that has had to be undone. And he
has known how to wait."
"To wait for Miss Archer's money? How much of it is there?"
"That's not what I mean," said Madame Merle. "Miss Archer has seventy
thousand pounds."
"Well, it's a pity she's so charming," the Countess declared. "To be
sacrificed, any girl would do. She needn't be superior."
"If she weren't superior your brother would never look at her. He must
have the best."
"Yes," returned the Countess as they went forward a little to meet
the others, "he's very hard to satisfy. That makes me tremble for her
happiness!"
| In Chapter 24, Isabel gets an impression of Osmond's home. Note that she does not see it as so ominous an object as the narrator has previously described the villa. Rather than seeing it as a house with windows that do not allow communication with the world , Isabel's perspective allows the narrator to briefly remark upon the "grave" air of the place, as if one would "need an act of energy to get out" of it once inside . The narrator counterbalances this observation with the remark that Isabel is only thinking about "advancing" though, and her thoughts are not nearly so foreboding. In the previous conversation between Madame Merle and Osmond, the setting has offered a reflection of the atmosphere: something sinister is going on between Madame Merle and Osmond, in this very secluded house. In this scene however, the signs are ignored, or poorly read. Notably Isabel herself realizes that she does not know how to read the people and the objects in the house, as the occasion "signified more than lay on the surface" for her . In other words, the narrator is setting up a contrast between a more objective interpretation of the house and Isabel's more interested, ambitious reading of the house. She wants to see more than lays beyond the surface, she wants to read into the signs, but she believes it is written in a cryptic language. The narrator's previous description of the house signifies that there is not much more than a superficial shell in this house: that signs do not point to a deeper meaning to be interpreted, but rather everything points to keeping the interpreter mystified through its lack of depth. This kind of deception is a reference to the larger deception that aesthetic objects play on people. Aesthetics is the analysis of art; it refers to the philosophical question of why we find something beautiful. So, for example, one can look at a beautiful artistic object and believe that there must be some deeper meaning or some higher "value" that is being referred to in it. One might believe it is a moral value, or an intellectual value, to which the various signs in a painting refer. Or, we could apply the same question to a novel: why do we read? What makes a book worthy of being read? Does it make us more moral people when we read? Or do we learn some higher truth about life? We believe that the signs of fiction might point us in a particular direction in life, give us some guidance. However, by treating aesthetics in the context of a novel, James is hinting at the idea that art is all an illusion. There is a trick being played: it looks like all the signs refer to some deeper meaning, but in fact, they are creating the illusion of depth by means of blocking the reader from pinning a definite interpretation upon them. That is what is happening to Isabel here. She is unable to figure out what values Osmond is referring to, what standards he uses to judge. But she is still interested because she believes there is a value. But if Osmond is revealed to be a bad person with no morality and no higher values, then it will show that she has created the illusion of value from her own inability to interpret the signs. She has tricked herself into believing there is depth, when there is only superficiality. Another theme that is relevant is the relationship between commodities and people. It is notable that many of Henry James' descriptions of characters end up being a comparison between a person and inanimate objects. Here, it seems that Osmond, who has so many nice objects and allows their value to all appreciate here in his own home as if they were collector's items, is comparing a woman to a commodity: "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated," he says . This is an eerie description of moral value, with an indication that he is actually referring to financial value. Similarly, Isabel begins to see him as an aesthetic object: a painting with a low-tone. In Chapter 25, we get a sense of what the true motivations of the characters are, beneath their appearances. There is the mention of money and marriage again: Isabel has seventy thousand pounds. But it is not quite clear why Madame Merle would be interested in giving Osmond Isabel's fortune through marriage. What does she have to gain from making this match? As a first time reader, it would be easy to overlook this chapter as the eccentric worries of Countess Gemini, who has been portrayed as a busybody. This foreshadows the true nature of Osmond. | analysis |
Gilbert Osmond came to see Isabel again; that is he came to Palazzo
Crescentini. He had other friends there as well, and to Mrs. Touchett
and Madame Merle he was always impartially civil; but the former of
these ladies noted the fact that in the course of a fortnight he
called five times, and compared it with another fact that she found no
difficulty in remembering. Two visits a year had hitherto constituted
his regular tribute to Mrs. Touchett's worth, and she had never
observed him select for such visits those moments, of almost periodical
recurrence, when Madame Merle was under her roof. It was not for Madame
Merle that he came; these two were old friends and he never put himself
out for her. He was not fond of Ralph--Ralph had told her so--and it was
not supposable that Mr. Osmond had suddenly taken a fancy to her son.
Ralph was imperturbable--Ralph had a kind of loose-fitting urbanity
that wrapped him about like an ill-made overcoat, but of which he
never divested himself; he thought Mr. Osmond very good company and was
willing at any time to look at him in the light of hospitality. But he
didn't flatter himself that the desire to repair a past injustice was
the motive of their visitor's calls; he read the situation more clearly.
Isabel was the attraction, and in all conscience a sufficient one.
Osmond was a critic, a student of the exquisite, and it was natural he
should be curious of so rare an apparition. So when his mother observed
to him that it was plain what Mr. Osmond was thinking of, Ralph replied
that he was quite of her opinion. Mrs. Touchett had from far back found
a place on her scant list for this gentleman, though wondering dimly by
what art and what process--so negative and so wise as they were--he
had everywhere effectively imposed himself. As he had never been an
importunate visitor he had had no chance to be offensive, and he was
recommended to her by his appearance of being as well able to do without
her as she was to do without him--a quality that always, oddly enough,
affected her as providing ground for a relation with her. It gave her
no satisfaction, however, to think that he had taken it into his head to
marry her niece. Such an alliance, on Isabel's part, would have an air
of almost morbid perversity. Mrs. Touchett easily remembered that the
girl had refused an English peer; and that a young lady with whom Lord
Warburton had not successfully wrestled should content herself with an
obscure American dilettante, a middle-aged widower with an uncanny child
and an ambiguous income, this answered to nothing in Mrs. Touchett's
conception of success. She took, it will be observed, not the
sentimental, but the political, view of matrimony--a view which has
always had much to recommend it. "I trust she won't have the folly
to listen to him," she said to her son; to which Ralph replied that
Isabel's listening was one thing and Isabel's answering quite another.
He knew she had listened to several parties, as his father would
have said, but had made them listen in return; and he found much
entertainment in the idea that in these few months of his knowing her he
should observe a fresh suitor at her gate. She had wanted to see life,
and fortune was serving her to her taste; a succession of fine gentlemen
going down on their knees to her would do as well as anything else.
Ralph looked forward to a fourth, a fifth, a tenth besieger; he had no
conviction she would stop at a third. She would keep the gate ajar and
open a parley; she would certainly not allow number three to come in.
He expressed this view, somewhat after this fashion, to his mother, who
looked at him as if he had been dancing a jig. He had such a fanciful,
pictorial way of saying things that he might as well address her in the
deaf-mute's alphabet.
"I don't think I know what you mean," she said; "you use too many
figures of speech; I could never understand allegories. The two words in
the language I most respect are Yes and No. If Isabel wants to marry Mr.
Osmond she'll do so in spite of all your comparisons. Let her alone to
find a fine one herself for anything she undertakes. I know very little
about the young man in America; I don't think she spends much of her
time in thinking of him, and I suspect he has got tired of waiting for
her. There's nothing in life to prevent her marrying Mr. Osmond if
she only looks at him in a certain way. That's all very well; no one
approves more than I of one's pleasing one's self. But she takes her
pleasure in such odd things; she's capable of marrying Mr. Osmond for
the beauty of his opinions or for his autograph of Michael Angelo.
She wants to be disinterested: as if she were the only person who's
in danger of not being so! Will HE be so disinterested when he has the
spending of her money? That was her idea before your father's death, and
it has acquired new charms for her since. She ought to marry some one of
whose disinterestedness she shall herself be sure; and there would be no
such proof of that as his having a fortune of his own."
"My dear mother, I'm not afraid," Ralph answered. "She's making fools of
us all. She'll please herself, of course; but she'll do so by studying
human nature at close quarters and yet retaining her liberty. She has
started on an exploring expedition, and I don't think she'll change her
course, at the outset, at a signal from Gilbert Osmond. She may have
slackened speed for an hour, but before we know it she'll be steaming
away again. Excuse another metaphor."
Mrs. Touchett excused it perhaps, but was not so much reassured as to
withhold from Madame Merle the expression of her fears. "You who
know everything," she said, "you must know this: whether that curious
creature's really making love to my niece."
"Gilbert Osmond?" Madame Merle widened her clear eyes and, with a full
intelligence, "Heaven help us," she exclaimed, "that's an idea!"
"Hadn't it occurred to you?"
"You make me feel an idiot, but I confess it hadn't. I wonder," she
added, "if it has occurred to Isabel."
"Oh, I shall now ask her," said Mrs. Touchett.
Madame Merle reflected. "Don't put it into her head. The thing would be
to ask Mr. Osmond."
"I can't do that," said Mrs. Touchett. "I won't have him enquire
of me--as he perfectly may with that air of his, given Isabel's
situation--what business it is of mine."
"I'll ask him myself," Madame Merle bravely declared.
"But what business--for HIM--is it of yours?"
"It's being none whatever is just why I can afford to speak. It's so
much less my business than any one's else that he can put me off with
anything he chooses. But it will be by the way he does this that I shall
know."
"Pray let me hear then," said Mrs. Touchett, "of the fruits of your
penetration. If I can't speak to him, however, at least I can speak to
Isabel."
Her companion sounded at this the note of warning. "Don't be too quick
with her. Don't inflame her imagination."
"I never did anything in life to any one's imagination. But I'm always
sure of her doing something--well, not of MY kind."
"No, you wouldn't like this," Madame Merle observed without the point of
interrogation.
"Why in the world should I, pray? Mr. Osmond has nothing the least solid
to offer."
Again Madame Merle was silent while her thoughtful smile drew up her
mouth even more charmingly than usual toward the left corner. "Let us
distinguish. Gilbert Osmond's certainly not the first comer. He's a man
who in favourable conditions might very well make a great impression. He
has made a great impression, to my knowledge, more than once."
"Don't tell me about his probably quite cold-blooded love-affairs;
they're nothing to me!" Mrs. Touchett cried. "What you say's precisely
why I wish he would cease his visits. He has nothing in the world that
I know of but a dozen or two of early masters and a more or less pert
little daughter."
"The early masters are now worth a good deal of money," said Madame
Merle, "and the daughter's a very young and very innocent and very
harmless person."
"In other words she's an insipid little chit. Is that what you mean?
Having no fortune she can't hope to marry as they marry here; so that
Isabel will have to furnish her either with a maintenance or with a
dowry."
"Isabel probably wouldn't object to being kind to her. I think she likes
the poor child."
"Another reason then for Mr. Osmond's stopping at home! Otherwise, a
week hence, we shall have my niece arriving at the conviction that her
mission in life's to prove that a stepmother may sacrifice herself--and
that, to prove it, she must first become one."
"She would make a charming stepmother," smiled Madame Merle; "but I
quite agree with you that she had better not decide upon her mission
too hastily. Changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as
changing the shape of one's nose: there they are, each, in the middle of
one's face and one's character--one has to begin too far back. But I'll
investigate and report to you."
All this went on quite over Isabel's head; she had no suspicions that
her relations with Mr. Osmond were being discussed. Madame Merle had
said nothing to put her on her guard; she alluded no more pointedly to
him than to the other gentlemen of Florence, native and foreign, who now
arrived in considerable numbers to pay their respects to Miss Archer's
aunt. Isabel thought him interesting--she came back to that; she liked
so to think of him. She had carried away an image from her visit to his
hill-top which her subsequent knowledge of him did nothing to efface
and which put on for her a particular harmony with other supposed
and divined things, histories within histories: the image of a quiet,
clever, sensitive, distinguished man, strolling on a moss-grown terrace
above the sweet Val d'Arno and holding by the hand a little girl whose
bell-like clearness gave a new grace to childhood. The picture had no
flourishes, but she liked its lowness of tone and the atmosphere of
summer twilight that pervaded it. It spoke of the kind of personal issue
that touched her most nearly; of the choice between objects, subjects,
contacts--what might she call them?--of a thin and those of a rich
association; of a lonely, studious life in a lovely land; of an old
sorrow that sometimes ached to-day; of a feeling of pride that was
perhaps exaggerated, but that had an element of nobleness; of a care
for beauty and perfection so natural and so cultivated together that the
career appeared to stretch beneath it in the disposed vistas and with
the ranges of steps and terraces and fountains of a formal Italian
garden--allowing only for arid places freshened by the natural dews of
a quaint half-anxious, half-helpless fatherhood. At Palazzo Crescentini
Mr. Osmond's manner remained the same; diffident at first--oh
self-conscious beyond doubt! and full of the effort (visible only to a
sympathetic eye) to overcome this disadvantage; an effort which
usually resulted in a great deal of easy, lively, very positive, rather
aggressive, always suggestive talk. Mr. Osmond's talk was not injured by
the indication of an eagerness to shine; Isabel found no difficulty
in believing that a person was sincere who had so many of the signs of
strong conviction--as for instance an explicit and graceful appreciation
of anything that might be said on his own side of the question, said
perhaps by Miss Archer in especial. What continued to please this young
woman was that while he talked so for amusement he didn't talk, as she
had heard people, for "effect." He uttered his ideas as if, odd as
they often appeared, he were used to them and had lived with them; old
polished knobs and heads and handles, of precious substance, that could
be fitted if necessary to new walking-sticks--not switches plucked in
destitution from the common tree and then too elegantly waved about. One
day he brought his small daughter with him, and she rejoiced to renew
acquaintance with the child, who, as she presented her forehead to be
kissed by every member of the circle, reminded her vividly of an ingenue
in a French play. Isabel had never seen a little person of this pattern;
American girls were very different--different too were the maidens of
England. Pansy was so formed and finished for her tiny place in the
world, and yet in imagination, as one could see, so innocent and
infantine. She sat on the sofa by Isabel; she wore a small grenadine
mantle and a pair of the useful gloves that Madame Merle had given
her--little grey gloves with a single button. She was like a sheet of
blank paper--the ideal jeune fille of foreign fiction. Isabel hoped that
so fair and smooth a page would be covered with an edifying text.
The Countess Gemini also came to call upon her, but the Countess was
quite another affair. She was by no means a blank sheet; she had been
written over in a variety of hands, and Mrs. Touchett, who felt by no
means honoured by her visit, pronounced that a number of unmistakeable
blots were to be seen upon her surface. The Countess gave rise indeed to
some discussion between the mistress of the house and the visitor from
Rome, in which Madame Merle (who was not such a fool as to irritate
people by always agreeing with them) availed herself felicitously enough
of that large licence of dissent which her hostess permitted as freely
as she practised it. Mrs. Touchett had declared it a piece of audacity
that this highly compromised character should have presented herself at
such a time of day at the door of a house in which she was esteemed so
little as she must long have known herself to be at Palazzo Crescentini.
Isabel had been made acquainted with the estimate prevailing under that
roof: it represented Mr. Osmond's sister as a lady who had so mismanaged
her improprieties that they had ceased to hang together at all--which
was at the least what one asked of such matters--and had become the mere
floating fragments of a wrecked renown, incommoding social circulation.
She had been married by her mother--a more administrative person, with
an appreciation of foreign titles which the daughter, to do her justice,
had probably by this time thrown off--to an Italian nobleman who had
perhaps given her some excuse for attempting to quench the consciousness
of outrage. The Countess, however, had consoled herself outrageously,
and the list of her excuses had now lost itself in the labyrinth of her
adventures. Mrs. Touchett had never consented to receive her, though the
Countess had made overtures of old. Florence was not an austere city;
but, as Mrs. Touchett said, she had to draw the line somewhere.
Madame Merle defended the luckless lady with a great deal of zeal and
wit. She couldn't see why Mrs. Touchett should make a scapegoat of a
woman who had really done no harm, who had only done good in the wrong
way. One must certainly draw the line, but while one was about it one
should draw it straight: it was a very crooked chalk-mark that would
exclude the Countess Gemini. In that case Mrs. Touchett had better
shut up her house; this perhaps would be the best course so long as
she remained in Florence. One must be fair and not make arbitrary
differences: the Countess had doubtless been imprudent, she had not been
so clever as other women. She was a good creature, not clever at
all; but since when had that been a ground of exclusion from the best
society? For ever so long now one had heard nothing about her, and there
could be no better proof of her having renounced the error of her ways
than her desire to become a member of Mrs. Touchett's circle. Isabel
could contribute nothing to this interesting dispute, not even a patient
attention; she contented herself with having given a friendly welcome to
the unfortunate lady, who, whatever her defects, had at least the merit
of being Mr. Osmond's sister. As she liked the brother Isabel thought it
proper to try and like the sister: in spite of the growing complexity of
things she was still capable of these primitive sequences. She had not
received the happiest impression of the Countess on meeting her at the
villa, but was thankful for an opportunity to repair the accident.
Had not Mr. Osmond remarked that she was a respectable person? To have
proceeded from Gilbert Osmond this was a crude proposition, but Madame
Merle bestowed upon it a certain improving polish. She told Isabel
more about the poor Countess than Mr. Osmond had done, and related the
history of her marriage and its consequences. The Count was a member of
an ancient Tuscan family, but of such small estate that he had been glad
to accept Amy Osmond, in spite of the questionable beauty which had yet
not hampered her career, with the modest dowry her mother was able
to offer--a sum about equivalent to that which had already formed her
brother's share of their patrimony. Count Gemini since then, however,
had inherited money, and now they were well enough off, as Italians
went, though Amy was horribly extravagant. The Count was a low-lived
brute; he had given his wife every pretext. She had no children; she had
lost three within a year of their birth. Her mother, who had bristled
with pretensions to elegant learning and published descriptive poems and
corresponded on Italian subjects with the English weekly journals, her
mother had died three years after the Countess's marriage, the father,
lost in the grey American dawn of the situation, but reputed originally
rich and wild, having died much earlier. One could see this in Gilbert
Osmond, Madame Merle held--see that he had been brought up by a woman;
though, to do him justice, one would suppose it had been by a more
sensible woman than the American Corinne, as Mrs. Osmond had liked to be
called. She had brought her children to Italy after her husband's death,
and Mrs. Touchett remembered her during the year that followed her
arrival. She thought her a horrible snob; but this was an irregularity
of judgement on Mrs. Touchett's part, for she, like Mrs. Osmond,
approved of political marriages. The Countess was very good company and
not really the featherhead she seemed; all one had to do with her was
to observe the simple condition of not believing a word she said.
Madame Merle had always made the best of her for her brother's sake;
he appreciated any kindness shown to Amy, because (if it had to be
confessed for him) he rather felt she let down their common name.
Naturally he couldn't like her style, her shrillness, her egotism,
her violations of taste and above all of truth: she acted badly on his
nerves, she was not HIS sort of woman. What was his sort of woman? Oh,
the very opposite of the Countess, a woman to whom the truth should be
habitually sacred. Isabel was unable to estimate the number of times her
visitor had, in half an hour, profaned it: the Countess indeed had
given her an impression of rather silly sincerity. She had talked almost
exclusively about herself; how much she should like to know Miss Archer;
how thankful she should be for a real friend; how base the people in
Florence were; how tired she was of the place; how much she should
like to live somewhere else--in Paris, in London, in Washington; how
impossible it was to get anything nice to wear in Italy except a little
old lace; how dear the world was growing everywhere; what a life of
suffering and privation she had led. Madame Merle listened with interest
to Isabel's account of this passage, but she had not needed it to feel
exempt from anxiety. On the whole she was not afraid of the Countess,
and she could afford to do what was altogether best--not to appear so.
Isabel had meanwhile another visitor, whom it was not, even behind her
back, so easy a matter to patronise. Henrietta Stackpole, who had left
Paris after Mrs. Touchett's departure for San Remo and had worked her
way down, as she said, through the cities of North Italy, reached the
banks of the Arno about the middle of May. Madame Merle surveyed her
with a single glance, took her in from head to foot, and after a pang
of despair determined to endure her. She determined indeed to delight
in her. She mightn't be inhaled as a rose, but she might be grasped as
a nettle. Madame Merle genially squeezed her into insignificance, and
Isabel felt that in foreseeing this liberality she had done justice to
her friend's intelligence. Henrietta's arrival had been announced by
Mr. Bantling, who, coming down from Nice while she was at Venice, and
expecting to find her in Florence, which she had not yet reached, called
at Palazzo Crescentini to express his disappointment. Henrietta's own
advent occurred two days later and produced in Mr. Bantling an emotion
amply accounted for by the fact that he had not seen her since the
termination of the episode at Versailles. The humorous view of his
situation was generally taken, but it was uttered only by Ralph
Touchett, who, in the privacy of his own apartment, when Bantling smoked
a cigar there, indulged in goodness knew what strong comedy on the
subject of the all-judging one and her British backer. This gentleman
took the joke in perfectly good part and candidly confessed that he
regarded the affair as a positive intellectual adventure. He liked
Miss Stackpole extremely; he thought she had a wonderful head on her
shoulders, and found great comfort in the society of a woman who was not
perpetually thinking about what would be said and how what she did, how
what they did--and they had done things!--would look. Miss Stackpole
never cared how anything looked, and, if she didn't care, pray why
should he? But his curiosity had been roused; he wanted awfully to see
if she ever WOULD care. He was prepared to go as far as she--he didn't
see why he should break down first.
Henrietta showed no signs of breaking down. Her prospects had brightened
on her leaving England, and she was now in the full enjoyment of her
copious resources. She had indeed been obliged to sacrifice her hopes
with regard to the inner life; the social question, on the Continent,
bristled with difficulties even more numerous than those she had
encountered in England. But on the Continent there was the outer
life, which was palpable and visible at every turn, and more easily
convertible to literary uses than the customs of those opaque islanders.
Out of doors in foreign lands, as she ingeniously remarked, one seemed
to see the right side of the tapestry; out of doors in England one
seemed to see the wrong side, which gave one no notion of the figure.
The admission costs her historian a pang, but Henrietta, despairing of
more occult things, was now paying much attention to the outer life. She
had been studying it for two months at Venice, from which city she sent
to the Interviewer a conscientious account of the gondolas, the Piazza,
the Bridge of Sighs, the pigeons and the young boatman who chanted
Tasso. The Interviewer was perhaps disappointed, but Henrietta was at
least seeing Europe. Her present purpose was to get down to Rome before
the malaria should come on--she apparently supposed that it began on a
fixed day; and with this design she was to spend at present but few days
in Florence. Mr. Bantling was to go with her to Rome, and she pointed
out to Isabel that as he had been there before, as he was a military man
and as he had had a classical education--he had been bred at Eton, where
they study nothing but Latin and Whyte-Melville, said Miss Stackpole--he
would be a most useful companion in the city of the Caesars. At this
juncture Ralph had the happy idea of proposing to Isabel that she also,
under his own escort, should make a pilgrimage to Rome. She expected
to pass a portion of the next winter there--that was very well; but
meantime there was no harm in surveying the field. There were ten days
left of the beautiful month of May--the most precious month of all
to the true Rome-lover. Isabel would become a Rome-lover; that was a
foregone conclusion. She was provided with a trusty companion of her
own sex, whose society, thanks to the fact of other calls on this lady's
attention, would probably not be oppressive. Madame Merle would remain
with Mrs. Touchett; she had left Rome for the summer and wouldn't
care to return. She professed herself delighted to be left at peace
in Florence; she had locked up her apartment and sent her cook home to
Palestrina. She urged Isabel, however, to assent to Ralph's proposal,
and assured her that a good introduction to Rome was not a thing to
be despised. Isabel in truth needed no urging, and the party of four
arranged its little journey. Mrs. Touchett, on this occasion, had
resigned herself to the absence of a duenna; we have seen that she
now inclined to the belief that her niece should stand alone. One of
Isabel's preparations consisted of her seeing Gilbert Osmond before she
started and mentioning her intention to him.
"I should like to be in Rome with you," he commented. "I should like to
see you on that wonderful ground."
She scarcely faltered. "You might come then."
"But you'll have a lot of people with you."
"Ah," Isabel admitted, "of course I shall not be alone."
For a moment he said nothing more. "You'll like it," he went on at last.
"They've spoiled it, but you'll rave about it."
"Ought I to dislike it because, poor old dear--the Niobe of Nations, you
know--it has been spoiled?" she asked.
"No, I think not. It has been spoiled so often," he smiled. "If I were
to go, what should I do with my little girl?"
"Can't you leave her at the villa?"
"I don't know that I like that--though there's a very good old woman who
looks after her. I can't afford a governess."
"Bring her with you then," said Isabel promptly.
Mr. Osmond looked grave. "She has been in Rome all winter, at her
convent; and she's too young to make journeys of pleasure."
"You don't like bringing her forward?" Isabel enquired.
"No, I think young girls should be kept out of the world."
"I was brought up on a different system."
"You? Oh, with you it succeeded, because you--you were exceptional."
"I don't see why," said Isabel, who, however, was not sure there was not
some truth in the speech.
Mr. Osmond didn't explain; he simply went on: "If I thought it would
make her resemble you to join a social group in Rome I'd take her there
to-morrow."
"Don't make her resemble me," said Isabel. "Keep her like herself."
"I might send her to my sister," Mr. Osmond observed. He had almost
the air of asking advice; he seemed to like to talk over his domestic
matters with Miss Archer.
"Yes," she concurred; "I think that wouldn't do much towards making her
resemble me!"
After she had left Florence Gilbert Osmond met Madame Merle at the
Countess Gemini's. There were other people present; the Countess's
drawing-room was usually well filled, and the talk had been general,
but after a while Osmond left his place and came and sat on an ottoman
half-behind, half-beside Madame Merle's chair. "She wants me to go to
Rome with her," he remarked in a low voice.
"To go with her?"
"To be there while she's there. She proposed it.
"I suppose you mean that you proposed it and she assented."
"Of course I gave her a chance. But she's encouraging--she's very
encouraging."
"I rejoice to hear it--but don't cry victory too soon. Of course you'll
go to Rome."
"Ah," said Osmond, "it makes one work, this idea of yours!"
"Don't pretend you don't enjoy it--you're very ungrateful. You've not
been so well occupied these many years."
"The way you take it's beautiful," said Osmond. "I ought to be grateful
for that."
"Not too much so, however," Madame Merle answered. She talked with
her usual smile, leaning back in her chair and looking round the room.
"You've made a very good impression, and I've seen for myself that
you've received one. You've not come to Mrs. Touchett's seven times to
oblige me."
"The girl's not disagreeable," Osmond quietly conceded.
Madame Merle dropped her eye on him a moment, during which her lips
closed with a certain firmness. "Is that all you can find to say about
that fine creature?"
"All? Isn't it enough? Of how many people have you heard me say more?"
She made no answer to this, but still presented her talkative grace to
the room. "You're unfathomable," she murmured at last. "I'm frightened
at the abyss into which I shall have cast her."
He took it almost gaily. "You can't draw back--you've gone too far."
"Very good; but you must do the rest yourself."
"I shall do it," said Gilbert Osmond.
Madame Merle remained silent and he changed his place again; but when
she rose to go he also took leave. Mrs. Touchett's victoria was awaiting
her guest in the court, and after he had helped his friend into it he
stood there detaining her. "You're very indiscreet," she said rather
wearily; "you shouldn't have moved when I did."
He had taken off his hat; he passed his hand over his forehead. "I
always forget; I'm out of the habit."
"You're quite unfathomable," she repeated, glancing up at the windows of
the house, a modern structure in the new part of the town.
He paid no heed to this remark, but spoke in his own sense. "She's
really very charming. I've scarcely known any one more graceful."
"It does me good to hear you say that. The better you like her the
better for me."
"I like her very much. She's all you described her, and into the bargain
capable, I feel, of great devotion. She has only one fault."
"What's that?"
"Too many ideas."
"I warned you she was clever."
"Fortunately they're very bad ones," said Osmond.
"Why is that fortunate?"
"Dame, if they must be sacrificed!"
Madame Merle leaned back, looking straight before her; then she spoke to
the coachman. But her friend again detained her. "If I go to Rome what
shall I do with Pansy?"
"I'll go and see her," said Madame Merle.
| Gilbert Osmond goes to visit Isabel five times at Palazzo Crescentini, where she and her aunt are staying. Mrs. Touchett notices the anomaly: while Osmond has visited her before, he has never done so quite so often. Ralph enjoys Osmond's company, and he understands Osmond's attraction to Isabel. They both guess at his true motivation. They both though do not believe Isabel would want to marry him. Mrs. Touchett believes she will not marry Osmond because he does not correspond with any conception of success that she has. Ralph believes Isabel will turn him down, because she is "studying human nature" and busy retaining her liberty. Mrs. Touchett wants to tell Isabel that Osmond will probably propose marriage, and Madame Merle prevents her, claiming that she will speak to Osmond about the matter. Madame Merle tells Mrs. Touchett not to inflame Isabel's imagination. Mrs. Touchett retorts that she never did such a thing in her whole life. Meanwhile, Isabel has no idea that others are discussing her relationship to Osmond. She merely has a picture in her mind of Osmond -- described as a picture without "flourishes" a low tone, and an atmosphere of summer twilight. Countess Gemini visits the house as well. She is not well regarded by others, as apparently some of her improprieties have managed to circulate as gossip around town. Madame Merle defends Countess Gemini against Mrs. Touchett's annoyance. Merle explains to Isabel that one need only observe the condition of not believing a single thing Countess Gemini said and then she was quite tolerable. Of course, according to Madame Merle's description of Countess Gemini, she is not well liked by her brother, because Osmond likes women who find the truth sacred. Mr. Bantling and Henrietta also pay a visit to Isabel. They decide to go to Rome together, as Henrietta Stackpole is now devoting herself to studying the outer aspects of life in Continental Europe. When Isabel informs Osmond of her intentions , he says he would like to see it with her, although he declines her invitation to do so in a group with others. He claims he cannot leave Pansy. Madame Merle and Osmond have a conversation at Countess Gemini's, in private. Madame Merle counsels him to go to Rome. Osmond thinks it sounds like a lot of work and Madame Merle responds that he is ungrateful. Osmond says that Isabel is not disagreeable, but she has one fault. She has too many ideas". He is glad, at the very least, that she has bad ideas, since they will have to be sacrificed | summary |
I may not attempt to report in its fulness our young woman's response
to the deep appeal of Rome, to analyse her feelings as she trod the
pavement of the Forum or to number her pulsations as she crossed the
threshold of Saint Peter's. It is enough to say that her impression was
such as might have been expected of a person of her freshness and her
eagerness. She had always been fond of history, and here was history
in the stones of the street and the atoms of the sunshine. She had an
imagination that kindled at the mention of great deeds, and wherever she
turned some great deed had been acted. These things strongly moved her,
but moved her all inwardly. It seemed to her companions that she talked
less than usual, and Ralph Touchett, when he appeared to be looking
listlessly and awkwardly over her head, was really dropping on her an
intensity of observation. By her own measure she was very happy; she
would even have been willing to take these hours for the happiest she
was ever to know. The sense of the terrible human past was heavy to her,
but that of something altogether contemporary would suddenly give it
wings that it could wave in the blue. Her consciousness was so mixed
that she scarcely knew where the different parts of it would lead her,
and she went about in a repressed ecstasy of contemplation, seeing often
in the things she looked at a great deal more than was there, and yet
not seeing many of the items enumerated in her Murray. Rome, as Ralph
said, confessed to the psychological moment. The herd of reechoing
tourists had departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed into
solemnity. The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the fountains
in their mossy niches had lost its chill and doubled its music. On the
corners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled on bundles of flowers.
Our friends had gone one afternoon--it was the third of their stay--to
look at the latest excavations in the Forum, these labours having been
for some time previous largely extended. They had descended from the
modern street to the level of the Sacred Way, along which they wandered
with a reverence of step which was not the same on the part of each.
Henrietta Stackpole was struck with the fact that ancient Rome had been
paved a good deal like New York, and even found an analogy between the
deep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street and the overjangled
iron grooves which express the intensity of American life. The sun had
begun to sink, the air was a golden haze, and the long shadows of broken
column and vague pedestal leaned across the field of ruin. Henrietta
wandered away with Mr. Bantling, whom it was apparently delightful to
her to hear speak of Julius Caesar as a "cheeky old boy," and Ralph
addressed such elucidations as he was prepared to offer to the attentive
ear of our heroine. One of the humble archeologists who hover about
the place had put himself at the disposal of the two, and repeated his
lesson with a fluency which the decline of the season had done nothing
to impair. A process of digging was on view in a remote corner of the
Forum, and he presently remarked that if it should please the signori
to go and watch it a little they might see something of interest. The
proposal commended itself more to Ralph than to Isabel, weary with much
wandering; so that she admonished her companion to satisfy his curiosity
while she patiently awaited his return. The hour and the place were much
to her taste--she should enjoy being briefly alone. Ralph accordingly
went off with the cicerone while Isabel sat down on a prostrate column
near the foundations of the Capitol. She wanted a short solitude, but
she was not long to enjoy it. Keen as was her interest in the rugged
relics of the Roman past that lay scattered about her and in which the
corrosion of centuries had still left so much of individual life, her
thoughts, after resting a while on these things, had wandered, by a
concatenation of stages it might require some subtlety to trace, to
regions and objects charged with a more active appeal. From the Roman
past to Isabel Archer's future was a long stride, but her imagination
had taken it in a single flight and now hovered in slow circles over
the nearer and richer field. She was so absorbed in her thoughts, as she
bent her eyes upon a row of cracked but not dislocated slabs covering
the ground at her feet, that she had not heard the sound of approaching
footsteps before a shadow was thrown across the line of her vision. She
looked up and saw a gentleman--a gentleman who was not Ralph come back
to say that the excavations were a bore. This personage was startled as
she was startled; he stood there baring his head to her perceptibly pale
surprise.
"Lord Warburton!" Isabel exclaimed as she rose.
"I had no idea it was you. I turned that corner and came upon you."
She looked about her to explain. "I'm alone, but my companions have just
left me. My cousin's gone to look at the work over there."
"Ah yes; I see." And Lord Warburton's eyes wandered vaguely in the
direction she had indicated. He stood firmly before her now; he had
recovered his balance and seemed to wish to show it, though very kindly.
"Don't let me disturb you," he went on, looking at her dejected pillar.
"I'm afraid you're tired."
"Yes, I'm rather tired." She hesitated a moment, but sat down again.
"Don't let me interrupt you," she added.
"Oh dear, I'm quite alone, I've nothing on earth to do. I had no
idea you were in Rome. I've just come from the East. I'm only passing
through."
"You've been making a long journey," said Isabel, who had learned from
Ralph that Lord Warburton was absent from England.
"Yes, I came abroad for six months--soon after I saw you last. I've been
in Turkey and Asia Minor; I came the other day from Athens." He managed
not to be awkward, but he wasn't easy, and after a longer look at the
girl he came down to nature. "Do you wish me to leave you, or will you
let me stay a little?"
She took it all humanely. "I don't wish you to leave me, Lord Warburton;
I'm very glad to see you."
"Thank you for saying that. May I sit down?"
The fluted shaft on which she had taken her seat would have afforded a
resting-place to several persons, and there was plenty of room even for
a highly-developed Englishman. This fine specimen of that great class
seated himself near our young lady, and in the course of five minutes he
had asked her several questions, taken rather at random and to which, as
he put some of them twice over, he apparently somewhat missed catching
the answer; had given her too some information about himself which was
not wasted upon her calmer feminine sense. He repeated more than once
that he had not expected to meet her, and it was evident that the
encounter touched him in a way that would have made preparation
advisable. He began abruptly to pass from the impunity of things
to their solemnity, and from their being delightful to their being
impossible. He was splendidly sunburnt; even his multitudinous beard had
been burnished by the fire of Asia. He was dressed in the loose-fitting,
heterogeneous garments in which the English traveller in foreign lands
is wont to consult his comfort and affirm his nationality; and with
his pleasant steady eyes, his bronzed complexion, fresh beneath its
seasoning, his manly figure, his minimising manner and his general air
of being a gentleman and an explorer, he was such a representative of
the British race as need not in any clime have been disavowed by those
who have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these things and was glad she
had always liked him. He had kept, evidently in spite of shocks, every
one of his merits--properties these partaking of the essence of great
decent houses, as one might put it; resembling their innermost fixtures
and ornaments, not subject to vulgar shifting and removable only by
some whole break-up. They talked of the matters naturally in order;
her uncle's death, Ralph's state of health, the way she had passed her
winter, her visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her plans for the
summer, the hotel she was staying at; and then of Lord Warburton's own
adventures, movements, intentions, impressions and present domicile. At
last there was a silence, and it said so much more than either had said
that it scarce needed his final words. "I've written to you several
times."
"Written to me? I've never had your letters."
"I never sent them. I burned them up."
"Ah," laughed Isabel, "it was better that you should do that than I!"
"I thought you wouldn't care for them," he went on with a simplicity
that touched her. "It seemed to me that after all I had no right to
trouble you with letters."
"I should have been very glad to have news of you. You know how I hoped
that--that--" But she stopped; there would be such a flatness in the
utterance of her thought.
"I know what you're going to say. You hoped we should always remain good
friends." This formula, as Lord Warburton uttered it, was certainly flat
enough; but then he was interested in making it appear so.
She found herself reduced simply to "Please don't talk of all that"; a
speech which hardly struck her as improvement on the other.
"It's a small consolation to allow me!" her companion exclaimed with
force.
"I can't pretend to console you," said the girl, who, all still as
she sat there, threw herself back with a sort of inward triumph on
the answer that had satisfied him so little six months before. He was
pleasant, he was powerful, he was gallant; there was no better man than
he. But her answer remained.
"It's very well you don't try to console me; it wouldn't be in your
power," she heard him say through the medium of her strange elation.
"I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you would attempt
to make me feel I had wronged you. But when you do that--the pain's
greater than the pleasure." And she got up with a small conscious
majesty, looking for her companions.
"I don't want to make you feel that; of course I can't say that. I only
just want you to know one or two things--in fairness to myself, as it
were. I won't return to the subject again. I felt very strongly what I
expressed to you last year; I couldn't think of anything else. I tried
to forget--energetically, systematically. I tried to take an interest in
somebody else. I tell you this because I want you to know I did my duty.
I didn't succeed. It was for the same purpose I went abroad--as far
away as possible. They say travelling distracts the mind, but it didn't
distract mine. I've thought of you perpetually, ever since I last saw
you. I'm exactly the same. I love you just as much, and everything I
said to you then is just as true. This instant at which I speak to you
shows me again exactly how, to my great misfortune, you just insuperably
charm me. There--I can't say less. I don't mean, however, to insist;
it's only for a moment. I may add that when I came upon you a few
minutes since, without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was, upon
my honour, in the very act of wishing I knew where you were." He had
recovered his self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. He
might have been addressing a small committee--making all quietly and
clearly a statement of importance; aided by an occasional look at a
paper of notes concealed in his hat, which he had not again put on. And
the committee, assuredly, would have felt the point proved.
"I've often thought of you, Lord Warburton," Isabel answered. "You may
be sure I shall always do that." And she added in a tone of which she
tried to keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning: "There's no
harm in that on either side."
They walked along together, and she was prompt to ask about his sisters
and request him to let them know she had done so. He made for the moment
no further reference to their great question, but dipped again into
shallower and safer waters. But he wished to know when she was to leave
Rome, and on her mentioning the limit of her stay declared he was glad
it was still so distant.
"Why do you say that if you yourself are only passing through?" she
enquired with some anxiety.
"Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn't mean that one would
treat Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To pass through Rome is to
stop a week or two."
"Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!"
His flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. "You won't like
that. You're afraid you'll see too much of me."
"It doesn't matter what I like. I certainly can't expect you to leave
this delightful place on my account. But I confess I'm afraid of you."
"Afraid I'll begin again? I promise to be very careful."
They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face. "Poor
Lord Warburton!" she said with a compassion intended to be good for both
of them.
"Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I'll be careful."
"You may be unhappy, but you shall not make ME so. That I can't allow."
"If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it." At
this she walked in advance and he also proceeded. "I'll never say a word
to displease you."
"Very good. If you do, our friendship's at an end."
"Perhaps some day--after a while--you'll give me leave."
"Give you leave to make me unhappy?"
He hesitated. "To tell you again--" But he checked himself. "I'll keep
it down. I'll keep it down always."
Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by Miss
Stackpole and her attendant, and these three now emerged from among the
mounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and came into
sight of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joy
qualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice "Gracious,
there's that lord!" Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with the
austerity with which, after long separations, English neighbours greet,
and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt
traveller. But she soon established her relation to the crisis. "I don't
suppose you remember me, sir."
"Indeed I do remember you," said Lord Warburton. "I asked you to come
and see me, and you never came."
"I don't go everywhere I'm asked," Miss Stackpole answered coldly.
"Ah well, I won't ask you again," laughed the master of Lockleigh.
"If you do I'll go; so be sure!"
Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr. Bantling
had stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now took occasion
to nod to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly "Oh, you here,
Bantling?" and a hand-shake.
"Well," said Henrietta, "I didn't know you knew him!"
"I guess you don't know every one I know," Mr. Bantling rejoined
facetiously.
"I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you."
"Ah, I'm afraid Bantling was ashamed of me," Lord Warburton laughed
again. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small sigh of
relief as they kept their course homeward.
The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two long
letters--one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but in
neither of these epistles did she mention the fact that a rejected
suitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoon
all good Romans (and the best Romans are often the northern barbarians)
follow the custom of going to vespers at Saint Peter's; and it had been
agreed among our friends that they would drive together to the great
church. After lunch, an hour before the carriage came, Lord Warburton
presented himself at the Hotel de Paris and paid a visit to the two
ladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having gone out together. The
visitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel a proof of his intention to
keep the promise made her the evening before; he was both discreet and
frank--not even dumbly importunate or remotely intense. He thus left
her to judge what a mere good friend he could be. He talked about his
travels, about Persia, about Turkey, and when Miss Stackpole asked him
whether it would "pay" for her to visit those countries assured her they
offered a great field to female enterprise. Isabel did him justice, but
she wondered what his purpose was and what he expected to gain even by
proving the superior strain of his sincerity. If he expected to melt
her by showing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself the
trouble. She knew the superior strain of everything about him, and
nothing he could now do was required to light the view. Moreover
his being in Rome at all affected her as a complication of the wrong
sort--she liked so complications of the right. Nevertheless, when, on
bringing his call to a close, he said he too should be at Saint Peter's
and should look out for her and her friends, she was obliged to reply
that he must follow his convenience.
In the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, he was the
first person she encountered. She had not been one of the superior
tourists who are "disappointed" in Saint Peter's and find it smaller
than its fame; the first time she passed beneath the huge leathern
curtain that strains and bangs at the entrance, the first time she found
herself beneath the far-arching dome and saw the light drizzle down
through the air thickened with incense and with the reflections of
marble and gilt, of mosaic and bronze, her conception of greatness rose
and dizzily rose. After this it never lacked space to soar. She gazed
and wondered like a child or a peasant, she paid her silent tribute to
the seated sublime. Lord Warburton walked beside her and talked of Saint
Sophia of Constantinople; she feared for instance that he would end
by calling attention to his exemplary conduct. The service had not yet
begun, but at Saint Peter's there is much to observe, and as there is
something almost profane in the vastness of the place, which seems meant
as much for physical as for spiritual exercise, the different figures
and groups, the mingled worshippers and spectators, may follow their
various intentions without conflict or scandal. In that splendid
immensity individual indiscretion carries but a short distance. Isabel
and her companions, however, were guilty of none; for though Henrietta
was obliged in candour to declare that Michael Angelo's dome suffered
by comparison with that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressed
her protest chiefly to Mr. Bantling's ear and reserved it in its more
accentuated form for the columns of the Interviewer. Isabel made the
circuit of the church with his lordship, and as they drew near the choir
on the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope's singers were borne
to them over the heads of the large number of persons clustered outside
the doors. They paused a while on the skirts of this crowd, composed
in equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive strangers, and while
they stood there the sacred concert went forward. Ralph, with Henrietta
and Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where Isabel, looking beyond
the dense group in front of her, saw the afternoon light, silvered by
clouds of incense that seemed to mingle with the splendid chant, slope
through the embossed recesses of high windows. After a while the singing
stopped and then Lord Warburton seemed disposed to move off with her.
Isabel could only accompany him; whereupon she found herself confronted
with Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have been standing at a short
distance behind her. He now approached with all the forms--he appeared
to have multiplied them on this occasion to suit the place.
"So you decided to come?" she said as she put out her hand.
"Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your hotel. They
told me you had come here, and I looked about for you."
"The others are inside," she decided to say.
"I didn't come for the others," he promptly returned.
She looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; perhaps he had heard
this. Suddenly she remembered it to be just what he had said to her the
morning he came to Gardencourt to ask her to marry him. Mr. Osmond's
words had brought the colour to her cheek, and this reminiscence had not
the effect of dispelling it. She repaired any betrayal by mentioning to
each companion the name of the other, and fortunately at this moment Mr.
Bantling emerged from the choir, cleaving the crowd with British valour
and followed by Miss Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately,
but this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter; since on
perceiving the gentleman from Florence Ralph Touchett appeared to take
the case as not committing him to joy. He didn't hang back, however,
from civility, and presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence,
that she would soon have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpole had
met Mr. Osmond in Florence, but she had already found occasion to say
to Isabel that she liked him no better than her other admirers--than Mr.
Touchett and Lord Warburton, and even than little Mr. Rosier in Paris.
"I don't know what it's in you," she had been pleased to remark, "but
for a nice girl you do attract the most unnatural people. Mr. Goodwood's
the only one I've any respect for, and he's just the one you don't
appreciate."
"What's your opinion of Saint Peter's?" Mr. Osmond was meanwhile
enquiring of our young lady.
"It's very large and very bright," she contented herself with replying.
"It's too large; it makes one feel like an atom."
"Isn't that the right way to feel in the greatest of human temples?" she
asked with rather a liking for her phrase.
"I suppose it's the right way to feel everywhere, when one IS nobody.
But I like it in a church as little as anywhere else."
"You ought indeed to be a Pope!" Isabel exclaimed, remembering something
he had referred to in Florence.
"Ah, I should have enjoyed that!" said Gilbert Osmond.
Lord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and the two strolled
away together. "Who's the fellow speaking to Miss Archer?" his lordship
demanded.
"His name's Gilbert Osmond--he lives in Florence," Ralph said.
"What is he besides?"
"Nothing at all. Oh yes, he's an American; but one forgets that--he's so
little of one."
"Has he known Miss Archer long?"
"Three or four weeks."
"Does she like him?"
"She's trying to find out."
"And will she?"
"Find out--?" Ralph asked.
"Will she like him?"
"Do you mean will she accept him?"
"Yes," said Lord Warburton after an instant; "I suppose that's what I
horribly mean."
"Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it," Ralph replied.
His lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. "Then we must be
perfectly quiet?"
"As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!" Ralph added.
"The chance she may?"
"The chance she may not?"
Lord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke again. "Is he
awfully clever?"
"Awfully," said Ralph.
His companion thought. "And what else?"
"What more do you want?" Ralph groaned.
"Do you mean what more does SHE?"
Ralph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the others.
"She wants nothing that WE can give her."
"Ah well, if she won't have You--!" said his lordship handsomely as they
went.
| Isabel visits Rome with Ralph, Henrietta, and Mr. Bantling. One day, they are visiting some old Roman ruins that are in the process of being excavated. Henrietta and Mr. Bantling wander off together, and Ralph goes to see an archaeological dig that is in process, leaving Isabel alone with her thoughts. She is distracted, thinking little about her outside surroundings, and very much preoccupied with her inner world. However, she has little time to herself because suddenly Lord Warburton appears. They are equally surprised to see one another. He explains that he is stopping in Rome after having travelled to Turkey and the Asia Minor for 6 months. He then cannot help but declare that he still loves her, and he has written her many letters during their time apart, which he has then burned before sending. Isabel is still firm: she wants to be friendly with him but does not want to encourage him. The next day, the group of four and Lord Warburton visit Saint Peter's Basilica. They have completed a walk around the church and are watching a choir singing at the entrance of the church, when Isabel suddenly discovers Gilbert Osmond has been watching her. He tells her that he decided to come, and that her hotel told him that he would find her here. Isabel blushes at the thought of what she had previously said to Lord Warburton when she rejected him, as she juxtaposes it with the image of Gilbert Osmond in Rome with herself. Gilbert Osmond meets the group, and Henrietta declares all of Isabel's companions in Europe to be unlikeable people. Osmond mentions that he thinks being in Saint Peter's makes one feel small. Meanwhile, Lord Warburton asks Ralph privately about Gilbert Osmond: does Ralph think Isabel will accept a marriage proposal from Osmond, if that is indeed his intention. Ralph replies that he thinks she will not accept so long as they do nothing to prevent the marriage | summary |
I may not attempt to report in its fulness our young woman's response
to the deep appeal of Rome, to analyse her feelings as she trod the
pavement of the Forum or to number her pulsations as she crossed the
threshold of Saint Peter's. It is enough to say that her impression was
such as might have been expected of a person of her freshness and her
eagerness. She had always been fond of history, and here was history
in the stones of the street and the atoms of the sunshine. She had an
imagination that kindled at the mention of great deeds, and wherever she
turned some great deed had been acted. These things strongly moved her,
but moved her all inwardly. It seemed to her companions that she talked
less than usual, and Ralph Touchett, when he appeared to be looking
listlessly and awkwardly over her head, was really dropping on her an
intensity of observation. By her own measure she was very happy; she
would even have been willing to take these hours for the happiest she
was ever to know. The sense of the terrible human past was heavy to her,
but that of something altogether contemporary would suddenly give it
wings that it could wave in the blue. Her consciousness was so mixed
that she scarcely knew where the different parts of it would lead her,
and she went about in a repressed ecstasy of contemplation, seeing often
in the things she looked at a great deal more than was there, and yet
not seeing many of the items enumerated in her Murray. Rome, as Ralph
said, confessed to the psychological moment. The herd of reechoing
tourists had departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed into
solemnity. The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the fountains
in their mossy niches had lost its chill and doubled its music. On the
corners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled on bundles of flowers.
Our friends had gone one afternoon--it was the third of their stay--to
look at the latest excavations in the Forum, these labours having been
for some time previous largely extended. They had descended from the
modern street to the level of the Sacred Way, along which they wandered
with a reverence of step which was not the same on the part of each.
Henrietta Stackpole was struck with the fact that ancient Rome had been
paved a good deal like New York, and even found an analogy between the
deep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street and the overjangled
iron grooves which express the intensity of American life. The sun had
begun to sink, the air was a golden haze, and the long shadows of broken
column and vague pedestal leaned across the field of ruin. Henrietta
wandered away with Mr. Bantling, whom it was apparently delightful to
her to hear speak of Julius Caesar as a "cheeky old boy," and Ralph
addressed such elucidations as he was prepared to offer to the attentive
ear of our heroine. One of the humble archeologists who hover about
the place had put himself at the disposal of the two, and repeated his
lesson with a fluency which the decline of the season had done nothing
to impair. A process of digging was on view in a remote corner of the
Forum, and he presently remarked that if it should please the signori
to go and watch it a little they might see something of interest. The
proposal commended itself more to Ralph than to Isabel, weary with much
wandering; so that she admonished her companion to satisfy his curiosity
while she patiently awaited his return. The hour and the place were much
to her taste--she should enjoy being briefly alone. Ralph accordingly
went off with the cicerone while Isabel sat down on a prostrate column
near the foundations of the Capitol. She wanted a short solitude, but
she was not long to enjoy it. Keen as was her interest in the rugged
relics of the Roman past that lay scattered about her and in which the
corrosion of centuries had still left so much of individual life, her
thoughts, after resting a while on these things, had wandered, by a
concatenation of stages it might require some subtlety to trace, to
regions and objects charged with a more active appeal. From the Roman
past to Isabel Archer's future was a long stride, but her imagination
had taken it in a single flight and now hovered in slow circles over
the nearer and richer field. She was so absorbed in her thoughts, as she
bent her eyes upon a row of cracked but not dislocated slabs covering
the ground at her feet, that she had not heard the sound of approaching
footsteps before a shadow was thrown across the line of her vision. She
looked up and saw a gentleman--a gentleman who was not Ralph come back
to say that the excavations were a bore. This personage was startled as
she was startled; he stood there baring his head to her perceptibly pale
surprise.
"Lord Warburton!" Isabel exclaimed as she rose.
"I had no idea it was you. I turned that corner and came upon you."
She looked about her to explain. "I'm alone, but my companions have just
left me. My cousin's gone to look at the work over there."
"Ah yes; I see." And Lord Warburton's eyes wandered vaguely in the
direction she had indicated. He stood firmly before her now; he had
recovered his balance and seemed to wish to show it, though very kindly.
"Don't let me disturb you," he went on, looking at her dejected pillar.
"I'm afraid you're tired."
"Yes, I'm rather tired." She hesitated a moment, but sat down again.
"Don't let me interrupt you," she added.
"Oh dear, I'm quite alone, I've nothing on earth to do. I had no
idea you were in Rome. I've just come from the East. I'm only passing
through."
"You've been making a long journey," said Isabel, who had learned from
Ralph that Lord Warburton was absent from England.
"Yes, I came abroad for six months--soon after I saw you last. I've been
in Turkey and Asia Minor; I came the other day from Athens." He managed
not to be awkward, but he wasn't easy, and after a longer look at the
girl he came down to nature. "Do you wish me to leave you, or will you
let me stay a little?"
She took it all humanely. "I don't wish you to leave me, Lord Warburton;
I'm very glad to see you."
"Thank you for saying that. May I sit down?"
The fluted shaft on which she had taken her seat would have afforded a
resting-place to several persons, and there was plenty of room even for
a highly-developed Englishman. This fine specimen of that great class
seated himself near our young lady, and in the course of five minutes he
had asked her several questions, taken rather at random and to which, as
he put some of them twice over, he apparently somewhat missed catching
the answer; had given her too some information about himself which was
not wasted upon her calmer feminine sense. He repeated more than once
that he had not expected to meet her, and it was evident that the
encounter touched him in a way that would have made preparation
advisable. He began abruptly to pass from the impunity of things
to their solemnity, and from their being delightful to their being
impossible. He was splendidly sunburnt; even his multitudinous beard had
been burnished by the fire of Asia. He was dressed in the loose-fitting,
heterogeneous garments in which the English traveller in foreign lands
is wont to consult his comfort and affirm his nationality; and with
his pleasant steady eyes, his bronzed complexion, fresh beneath its
seasoning, his manly figure, his minimising manner and his general air
of being a gentleman and an explorer, he was such a representative of
the British race as need not in any clime have been disavowed by those
who have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these things and was glad she
had always liked him. He had kept, evidently in spite of shocks, every
one of his merits--properties these partaking of the essence of great
decent houses, as one might put it; resembling their innermost fixtures
and ornaments, not subject to vulgar shifting and removable only by
some whole break-up. They talked of the matters naturally in order;
her uncle's death, Ralph's state of health, the way she had passed her
winter, her visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her plans for the
summer, the hotel she was staying at; and then of Lord Warburton's own
adventures, movements, intentions, impressions and present domicile. At
last there was a silence, and it said so much more than either had said
that it scarce needed his final words. "I've written to you several
times."
"Written to me? I've never had your letters."
"I never sent them. I burned them up."
"Ah," laughed Isabel, "it was better that you should do that than I!"
"I thought you wouldn't care for them," he went on with a simplicity
that touched her. "It seemed to me that after all I had no right to
trouble you with letters."
"I should have been very glad to have news of you. You know how I hoped
that--that--" But she stopped; there would be such a flatness in the
utterance of her thought.
"I know what you're going to say. You hoped we should always remain good
friends." This formula, as Lord Warburton uttered it, was certainly flat
enough; but then he was interested in making it appear so.
She found herself reduced simply to "Please don't talk of all that"; a
speech which hardly struck her as improvement on the other.
"It's a small consolation to allow me!" her companion exclaimed with
force.
"I can't pretend to console you," said the girl, who, all still as
she sat there, threw herself back with a sort of inward triumph on
the answer that had satisfied him so little six months before. He was
pleasant, he was powerful, he was gallant; there was no better man than
he. But her answer remained.
"It's very well you don't try to console me; it wouldn't be in your
power," she heard him say through the medium of her strange elation.
"I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you would attempt
to make me feel I had wronged you. But when you do that--the pain's
greater than the pleasure." And she got up with a small conscious
majesty, looking for her companions.
"I don't want to make you feel that; of course I can't say that. I only
just want you to know one or two things--in fairness to myself, as it
were. I won't return to the subject again. I felt very strongly what I
expressed to you last year; I couldn't think of anything else. I tried
to forget--energetically, systematically. I tried to take an interest in
somebody else. I tell you this because I want you to know I did my duty.
I didn't succeed. It was for the same purpose I went abroad--as far
away as possible. They say travelling distracts the mind, but it didn't
distract mine. I've thought of you perpetually, ever since I last saw
you. I'm exactly the same. I love you just as much, and everything I
said to you then is just as true. This instant at which I speak to you
shows me again exactly how, to my great misfortune, you just insuperably
charm me. There--I can't say less. I don't mean, however, to insist;
it's only for a moment. I may add that when I came upon you a few
minutes since, without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was, upon
my honour, in the very act of wishing I knew where you were." He had
recovered his self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. He
might have been addressing a small committee--making all quietly and
clearly a statement of importance; aided by an occasional look at a
paper of notes concealed in his hat, which he had not again put on. And
the committee, assuredly, would have felt the point proved.
"I've often thought of you, Lord Warburton," Isabel answered. "You may
be sure I shall always do that." And she added in a tone of which she
tried to keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning: "There's no
harm in that on either side."
They walked along together, and she was prompt to ask about his sisters
and request him to let them know she had done so. He made for the moment
no further reference to their great question, but dipped again into
shallower and safer waters. But he wished to know when she was to leave
Rome, and on her mentioning the limit of her stay declared he was glad
it was still so distant.
"Why do you say that if you yourself are only passing through?" she
enquired with some anxiety.
"Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn't mean that one would
treat Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To pass through Rome is to
stop a week or two."
"Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!"
His flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. "You won't like
that. You're afraid you'll see too much of me."
"It doesn't matter what I like. I certainly can't expect you to leave
this delightful place on my account. But I confess I'm afraid of you."
"Afraid I'll begin again? I promise to be very careful."
They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face. "Poor
Lord Warburton!" she said with a compassion intended to be good for both
of them.
"Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I'll be careful."
"You may be unhappy, but you shall not make ME so. That I can't allow."
"If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it." At
this she walked in advance and he also proceeded. "I'll never say a word
to displease you."
"Very good. If you do, our friendship's at an end."
"Perhaps some day--after a while--you'll give me leave."
"Give you leave to make me unhappy?"
He hesitated. "To tell you again--" But he checked himself. "I'll keep
it down. I'll keep it down always."
Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by Miss
Stackpole and her attendant, and these three now emerged from among the
mounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and came into
sight of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joy
qualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice "Gracious,
there's that lord!" Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with the
austerity with which, after long separations, English neighbours greet,
and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt
traveller. But she soon established her relation to the crisis. "I don't
suppose you remember me, sir."
"Indeed I do remember you," said Lord Warburton. "I asked you to come
and see me, and you never came."
"I don't go everywhere I'm asked," Miss Stackpole answered coldly.
"Ah well, I won't ask you again," laughed the master of Lockleigh.
"If you do I'll go; so be sure!"
Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr. Bantling
had stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now took occasion
to nod to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly "Oh, you here,
Bantling?" and a hand-shake.
"Well," said Henrietta, "I didn't know you knew him!"
"I guess you don't know every one I know," Mr. Bantling rejoined
facetiously.
"I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you."
"Ah, I'm afraid Bantling was ashamed of me," Lord Warburton laughed
again. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small sigh of
relief as they kept their course homeward.
The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two long
letters--one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but in
neither of these epistles did she mention the fact that a rejected
suitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoon
all good Romans (and the best Romans are often the northern barbarians)
follow the custom of going to vespers at Saint Peter's; and it had been
agreed among our friends that they would drive together to the great
church. After lunch, an hour before the carriage came, Lord Warburton
presented himself at the Hotel de Paris and paid a visit to the two
ladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having gone out together. The
visitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel a proof of his intention to
keep the promise made her the evening before; he was both discreet and
frank--not even dumbly importunate or remotely intense. He thus left
her to judge what a mere good friend he could be. He talked about his
travels, about Persia, about Turkey, and when Miss Stackpole asked him
whether it would "pay" for her to visit those countries assured her they
offered a great field to female enterprise. Isabel did him justice, but
she wondered what his purpose was and what he expected to gain even by
proving the superior strain of his sincerity. If he expected to melt
her by showing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself the
trouble. She knew the superior strain of everything about him, and
nothing he could now do was required to light the view. Moreover
his being in Rome at all affected her as a complication of the wrong
sort--she liked so complications of the right. Nevertheless, when, on
bringing his call to a close, he said he too should be at Saint Peter's
and should look out for her and her friends, she was obliged to reply
that he must follow his convenience.
In the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, he was the
first person she encountered. She had not been one of the superior
tourists who are "disappointed" in Saint Peter's and find it smaller
than its fame; the first time she passed beneath the huge leathern
curtain that strains and bangs at the entrance, the first time she found
herself beneath the far-arching dome and saw the light drizzle down
through the air thickened with incense and with the reflections of
marble and gilt, of mosaic and bronze, her conception of greatness rose
and dizzily rose. After this it never lacked space to soar. She gazed
and wondered like a child or a peasant, she paid her silent tribute to
the seated sublime. Lord Warburton walked beside her and talked of Saint
Sophia of Constantinople; she feared for instance that he would end
by calling attention to his exemplary conduct. The service had not yet
begun, but at Saint Peter's there is much to observe, and as there is
something almost profane in the vastness of the place, which seems meant
as much for physical as for spiritual exercise, the different figures
and groups, the mingled worshippers and spectators, may follow their
various intentions without conflict or scandal. In that splendid
immensity individual indiscretion carries but a short distance. Isabel
and her companions, however, were guilty of none; for though Henrietta
was obliged in candour to declare that Michael Angelo's dome suffered
by comparison with that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressed
her protest chiefly to Mr. Bantling's ear and reserved it in its more
accentuated form for the columns of the Interviewer. Isabel made the
circuit of the church with his lordship, and as they drew near the choir
on the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope's singers were borne
to them over the heads of the large number of persons clustered outside
the doors. They paused a while on the skirts of this crowd, composed
in equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive strangers, and while
they stood there the sacred concert went forward. Ralph, with Henrietta
and Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where Isabel, looking beyond
the dense group in front of her, saw the afternoon light, silvered by
clouds of incense that seemed to mingle with the splendid chant, slope
through the embossed recesses of high windows. After a while the singing
stopped and then Lord Warburton seemed disposed to move off with her.
Isabel could only accompany him; whereupon she found herself confronted
with Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have been standing at a short
distance behind her. He now approached with all the forms--he appeared
to have multiplied them on this occasion to suit the place.
"So you decided to come?" she said as she put out her hand.
"Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your hotel. They
told me you had come here, and I looked about for you."
"The others are inside," she decided to say.
"I didn't come for the others," he promptly returned.
She looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; perhaps he had heard
this. Suddenly she remembered it to be just what he had said to her the
morning he came to Gardencourt to ask her to marry him. Mr. Osmond's
words had brought the colour to her cheek, and this reminiscence had not
the effect of dispelling it. She repaired any betrayal by mentioning to
each companion the name of the other, and fortunately at this moment Mr.
Bantling emerged from the choir, cleaving the crowd with British valour
and followed by Miss Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately,
but this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter; since on
perceiving the gentleman from Florence Ralph Touchett appeared to take
the case as not committing him to joy. He didn't hang back, however,
from civility, and presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence,
that she would soon have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpole had
met Mr. Osmond in Florence, but she had already found occasion to say
to Isabel that she liked him no better than her other admirers--than Mr.
Touchett and Lord Warburton, and even than little Mr. Rosier in Paris.
"I don't know what it's in you," she had been pleased to remark, "but
for a nice girl you do attract the most unnatural people. Mr. Goodwood's
the only one I've any respect for, and he's just the one you don't
appreciate."
"What's your opinion of Saint Peter's?" Mr. Osmond was meanwhile
enquiring of our young lady.
"It's very large and very bright," she contented herself with replying.
"It's too large; it makes one feel like an atom."
"Isn't that the right way to feel in the greatest of human temples?" she
asked with rather a liking for her phrase.
"I suppose it's the right way to feel everywhere, when one IS nobody.
But I like it in a church as little as anywhere else."
"You ought indeed to be a Pope!" Isabel exclaimed, remembering something
he had referred to in Florence.
"Ah, I should have enjoyed that!" said Gilbert Osmond.
Lord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and the two strolled
away together. "Who's the fellow speaking to Miss Archer?" his lordship
demanded.
"His name's Gilbert Osmond--he lives in Florence," Ralph said.
"What is he besides?"
"Nothing at all. Oh yes, he's an American; but one forgets that--he's so
little of one."
"Has he known Miss Archer long?"
"Three or four weeks."
"Does she like him?"
"She's trying to find out."
"And will she?"
"Find out--?" Ralph asked.
"Will she like him?"
"Do you mean will she accept him?"
"Yes," said Lord Warburton after an instant; "I suppose that's what I
horribly mean."
"Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it," Ralph replied.
His lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. "Then we must be
perfectly quiet?"
"As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!" Ralph added.
"The chance she may?"
"The chance she may not?"
Lord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke again. "Is he
awfully clever?"
"Awfully," said Ralph.
His companion thought. "And what else?"
"What more do you want?" Ralph groaned.
"Do you mean what more does SHE?"
Ralph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the others.
"She wants nothing that WE can give her."
"Ah well, if she won't have You--!" said his lordship handsomely as they
went.
| In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not "to signify." This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning. | analysis |
On the morrow, in the evening, Lord Warburton went again to see his
friends at their hotel, and at this establishment he learned that they
had gone to the opera. He drove to the opera with the idea of paying
them a visit in their box after the easy Italian fashion; and when
he had obtained his admittance--it was one of the secondary
theatres--looked about the large, bare, ill-lighted house. An act
had just terminated and he was at liberty to pursue his quest. After
scanning two or three tiers of boxes he perceived in one of the largest
of these receptacles a lady whom he easily recognised. Miss Archer was
seated facing the stage and partly screened by the curtain of the box;
and beside her, leaning back in his chair, was Mr. Gilbert Osmond. They
appeared to have the place to themselves, and Warburton supposed their
companions had taken advantage of the recess to enjoy the relative
coolness of the lobby. He stood a while with his eyes on the interesting
pair; he asked himself if he should go up and interrupt the harmony. At
last he judged that Isabel had seen him, and this accident determined
him. There should be no marked holding off. He took his way to the upper
regions and on the staircase met Ralph Touchett slowly descending, his
hat at the inclination of ennui and his hands where they usually were.
"I saw you below a moment since and was going down to you. I feel lonely
and want company," was Ralph's greeting.
"You've some that's very good which you've yet deserted."
"Do you mean my cousin? Oh, she has a visitor and doesn't want me. Then
Miss Stackpole and Bantling have gone out to a cafe to eat an ice--Miss
Stackpole delights in an ice. I didn't think they wanted me either.
The opera's very bad; the women look like laundresses and sing like
peacocks. I feel very low."
"You had better go home," Lord Warburton said without affectation.
"And leave my young lady in this sad place? Ah no, I must watch over
her."
"She seems to have plenty of friends."
"Yes, that's why I must watch," said Ralph with the same large
mock-melancholy.
"If she doesn't want you it's probable she doesn't want me."
"No, you're different. Go to the box and stay there while I walk about."
Lord Warburton went to the box, where Isabel's welcome was as to a
friend so honourably old that he vaguely asked himself what queer
temporal province she was annexing. He exchanged greetings with Mr.
Osmond, to whom he had been introduced the day before and who, after he
came in, sat blandly apart and silent, as if repudiating competence in
the subjects of allusion now probable. It struck her second visitor
that Miss Archer had, in operatic conditions, a radiance, even a
slight exaltation; as she was, however, at all times a keenly-glancing,
quickly-moving, completely animated young woman, he may have been
mistaken on this point. Her talk with him moreover pointed to presence
of mind; it expressed a kindness so ingenious and deliberate as to
indicate that she was in undisturbed possession of her faculties. Poor
Lord Warburton had moments of bewilderment. She had discouraged him,
formally, as much as a woman could; what business had she then with
such arts and such felicities, above all with such tones of
reparation--preparation? Her voice had tricks of sweetness, but why play
them on HIM? The others came back; the bare, familiar, trivial opera
began again. The box was large, and there was room for him to remain
if he would sit a little behind and in the dark. He did so for half an
hour, while Mr. Osmond remained in front, leaning forward, his elbows
on his knees, just behind Isabel. Lord Warburton heard nothing, and from
his gloomy corner saw nothing but the clear profile of this young
lady defined against the dim illumination of the house. When there was
another interval no one moved. Mr. Osmond talked to Isabel, and Lord
Warburton kept his corner. He did so but for a short time, however;
after which he got up and bade good-night to the ladies. Isabel said
nothing to detain him, but it didn't prevent his being puzzled again.
Why should she mark so one of his values--quite the wrong one--when she
would have nothing to do with another, which was quite the right? He was
angry with himself for being puzzled, and then angry for being angry.
Verdi's music did little to comfort him, and he left the theatre and
walked homeward, without knowing his way, through the tortuous, tragic
streets of Rome, where heavier sorrows than his had been carried under
the stars.
"What's the character of that gentleman?" Osmond asked of Isabel after
he had retired.
"Irreproachable--don't you see it?"
"He owns about half England; that's his character," Henrietta remarked.
"That's what they call a free country!"
"Ah, he's a great proprietor? Happy man!" said Gilbert Osmond.
"Do you call that happiness--the ownership of wretched human beings?"
cried Miss Stackpole. "He owns his tenants and has thousands of them.
It's pleasant to own something, but inanimate objects are enough for me.
I don't insist on flesh and blood and minds and consciences."
"It seems to me you own a human being or two," Mr. Bantling suggested
jocosely. "I wonder if Warburton orders his tenants about as you do me."
"Lord Warburton's a great radical," Isabel said. "He has very advanced
opinions."
"He has very advanced stone walls. His park's enclosed by a gigantic
iron fence, some thirty miles round," Henrietta announced for the
information of Mr. Osmond. "I should like him to converse with a few of
our Boston radicals."
"Don't they approve of iron fences?" asked Mr. Bantling.
"Only to shut up wicked conservatives. I always feel as if I were
talking to YOU over something with a neat top-finish of broken glass."
"Do you know him well, this unreformed reformer?" Osmond went on,
questioning Isabel.
"Well enough for all the use I have for him."
"And how much of a use is that?"
"Well, I like to like him."
"'Liking to like'--why, it makes a passion!" said Osmond.
"No"--she considered--"keep that for liking to DISlike."
"Do you wish to provoke me then," Osmond laughed, "to a passion for
HIM?"
She said nothing for a moment, but then met the light question with a
disproportionate gravity. "No, Mr. Osmond; I don't think I should ever
dare to provoke you. Lord Warburton, at any rate," she more easily
added, "is a very nice man."
"Of great ability?" her friend enquired.
"Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks."
"As good as he's good-looking do you mean? He's very good-looking. How
detestably fortunate!--to be a great English magnate, to be clever and
handsome into the bargain, and, by way of finishing off, to enjoy your
high favour! That's a man I could envy."
Isabel considered him with interest. "You seem to me to be always
envying some one. Yesterday it was the Pope; to-day it's poor Lord
Warburton."
"My envy's not dangerous; it wouldn't hurt a mouse. I don't want to
destroy the people--I only want to BE them. You see it would destroy
only myself."
"You'd like to be the Pope?" said Isabel.
"I should love it--but I should have gone in for it earlier. But
why"--Osmond reverted--"do you speak of your friend as poor?"
"Women--when they are very, very good sometimes pity men after they've
hurt them; that's their great way of showing kindness," said Ralph,
joining in the conversation for the first time and with a cynicism so
transparently ingenious as to be virtually innocent.
"Pray, have I hurt Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked, raising her eyebrows
as if the idea were perfectly fresh.
"It serves him right if you have," said Henrietta while the curtain rose
for the ballet.
Isabel saw no more of her attributive victim for the next twenty-four
hours, but on the second day after the visit to the opera she
encountered him in the gallery of the Capitol, where he stood before the
lion of the collection, the statue of the Dying Gladiator. She had come
in with her companions, among whom, on this occasion again, Gilbert
Osmond had his place, and the party, having ascended the staircase,
entered the first and finest of the rooms. Lord Warburton addressed her
alertly enough, but said in a moment that he was leaving the gallery.
"And I'm leaving Rome," he added. "I must bid you goodbye." Isabel,
inconsequently enough, was now sorry to hear it. This was perhaps
because she had ceased to be afraid of his renewing his suit; she was
thinking of something else. She was on the point of naming her regret,
but she checked herself and simply wished him a happy journey; which
made him look at her rather unlightedly. "I'm afraid you'll think me
very 'volatile.' I told you the other day I wanted so much to stop."
"Oh no; you could easily change your mind."
"That's what I have done."
"Bon voyage then."
"You're in a great hurry to get rid of me," said his lordship quite
dismally.
"Not in the least. But I hate partings."
"You don't care what I do," he went on pitifully.
Isabel looked at him a moment. "Ah," she said, "you're not keeping your
promise!"
He coloured like a boy of fifteen. "If I'm not, then it's because I
can't; and that's why I'm going."
"Good-bye then."
"Good-bye." He lingered still, however. "When shall I see you again?"
Isabel hesitated, but soon, as if she had had a happy inspiration: "Some
day after you're married."
"That will never be. It will be after you are."
"That will do as well," she smiled.
"Yes, quite as well. Good-bye."
They shook hands, and he left her alone in the glorious room, among the
shining antique marbles. She sat down in the centre of the circle of
these presences, regarding them vaguely, resting her eyes on their
beautiful blank faces; listening, as it were, to their eternal silence.
It is impossible, in Rome at least, to look long at a great company of
Greek sculptures without feeling the effect of their noble quietude;
which, as with a high door closed for the ceremony, slowly drops on
the spirit the large white mantle of peace. I say in Rome especially,
because the Roman air is an exquisite medium for such impressions. The
golden sunshine mingles with them, the deep stillness of the past, so
vivid yet, though it is nothing but a void full of names, seems to throw
a solemn spell upon them. The blinds were partly closed in the windows
of the Capitol, and a clear, warm shadow rested on the figures and made
them more mildly human. Isabel sat there a long time, under the charm
of their motionless grace, wondering to what, of their experience, their
absent eyes were open, and how, to our ears, their alien lips would
sound. The dark red walls of the room threw them into relief; the
polished marble floor reflected their beauty. She had seen them all
before, but her enjoyment repeated itself, and it was all the greater
because she was glad again, for the time, to be alone. At last, however,
her attention lapsed, drawn off by a deeper tide of life. An occasional
tourist came in, stopped and stared a moment at the Dying Gladiator, and
then passed out of the other door, creaking over the smooth pavement. At
the end of half an hour Gilbert Osmond reappeared, apparently in advance
of his companions. He strolled toward her slowly, with his hands
behind him and his usual enquiring, yet not quite appealing smile. "I'm
surprised to find you alone, I thought you had company.
"So I have--the best." And she glanced at the Antinous and the Faun.
"Do you call them better company than an English peer?"
"Ah, my English peer left me some time ago." She got up, speaking with
intention a little dryly.
Mr. Osmond noted her dryness, which contributed for him to the interest
of his question. "I'm afraid that what I heard the other evening is
true: you're rather cruel to that nobleman."
Isabel looked a moment at the vanquished Gladiator. "It's not true. I'm
scrupulously kind."
"That's exactly what I mean!" Gilbert Osmond returned, and with such
happy hilarity that his joke needs to be explained. We know that he was
fond of originals, of rarities, of the superior and the exquisite; and
now that he had seen Lord Warburton, whom he thought a very fine example
of his race and order, he perceived a new attraction in the idea of
taking to himself a young lady who had qualified herself to figure in
his collection of choice objects by declining so noble a hand. Gilbert
Osmond had a high appreciation of this particular patriciate; not so
much for its distinction, which he thought easily surpassable, as for
its solid actuality. He had never forgiven his star for not appointing
him to an English dukedom, and he could measure the unexpectedness of
such conduct as Isabel's. It would be proper that the woman he might
marry should have done something of that sort.
| The next day Lord Warburton goes to the opera, where he knows he will find Isabel and the others. He spots Isabel in a box with Gilbert Osmond and decides to join her. Lord Warburton then glumly watches the two together during the opera. He feels angry and puzzled. Osmond later asks about Lord Warburton. Upon finding out about his character and his fortune, he declares that he would like to be Lord Warburton. Isabel jokes that he is always envying someone, and Osmond responds that his envy is not dangerous. A day later, Lord Warburton abruptly announces that he is leaving Rome, when he encounters them in the gallery of the Capitol. Isabel, then, left alone, in front of the statue of the Dying Gladiator, feeling the vividness of the past. Isabel wonders about these Greek sculptures around her, wondering what they would say if they were alive. After she is sitting alone for half an hour, Gilbert Osmond appears. Osmond notes that Isabel is quite cruel to Lord Warburton. We learn that Osmond, who is very fond of originals, takes a real liking from the idea that Lord Warburton desires Isabel. He likes the idea of taking a "young lady who had qualified herself to figure in his collection of choice objects by declining so noble a hand". In other words, he thinks of Isabel as a collector's object that he will hoard for himself. She has more value now that she has had the original idea of rejecting such an aristocratic figure as Lord Warburton | summary |
On the morrow, in the evening, Lord Warburton went again to see his
friends at their hotel, and at this establishment he learned that they
had gone to the opera. He drove to the opera with the idea of paying
them a visit in their box after the easy Italian fashion; and when
he had obtained his admittance--it was one of the secondary
theatres--looked about the large, bare, ill-lighted house. An act
had just terminated and he was at liberty to pursue his quest. After
scanning two or three tiers of boxes he perceived in one of the largest
of these receptacles a lady whom he easily recognised. Miss Archer was
seated facing the stage and partly screened by the curtain of the box;
and beside her, leaning back in his chair, was Mr. Gilbert Osmond. They
appeared to have the place to themselves, and Warburton supposed their
companions had taken advantage of the recess to enjoy the relative
coolness of the lobby. He stood a while with his eyes on the interesting
pair; he asked himself if he should go up and interrupt the harmony. At
last he judged that Isabel had seen him, and this accident determined
him. There should be no marked holding off. He took his way to the upper
regions and on the staircase met Ralph Touchett slowly descending, his
hat at the inclination of ennui and his hands where they usually were.
"I saw you below a moment since and was going down to you. I feel lonely
and want company," was Ralph's greeting.
"You've some that's very good which you've yet deserted."
"Do you mean my cousin? Oh, she has a visitor and doesn't want me. Then
Miss Stackpole and Bantling have gone out to a cafe to eat an ice--Miss
Stackpole delights in an ice. I didn't think they wanted me either.
The opera's very bad; the women look like laundresses and sing like
peacocks. I feel very low."
"You had better go home," Lord Warburton said without affectation.
"And leave my young lady in this sad place? Ah no, I must watch over
her."
"She seems to have plenty of friends."
"Yes, that's why I must watch," said Ralph with the same large
mock-melancholy.
"If she doesn't want you it's probable she doesn't want me."
"No, you're different. Go to the box and stay there while I walk about."
Lord Warburton went to the box, where Isabel's welcome was as to a
friend so honourably old that he vaguely asked himself what queer
temporal province she was annexing. He exchanged greetings with Mr.
Osmond, to whom he had been introduced the day before and who, after he
came in, sat blandly apart and silent, as if repudiating competence in
the subjects of allusion now probable. It struck her second visitor
that Miss Archer had, in operatic conditions, a radiance, even a
slight exaltation; as she was, however, at all times a keenly-glancing,
quickly-moving, completely animated young woman, he may have been
mistaken on this point. Her talk with him moreover pointed to presence
of mind; it expressed a kindness so ingenious and deliberate as to
indicate that she was in undisturbed possession of her faculties. Poor
Lord Warburton had moments of bewilderment. She had discouraged him,
formally, as much as a woman could; what business had she then with
such arts and such felicities, above all with such tones of
reparation--preparation? Her voice had tricks of sweetness, but why play
them on HIM? The others came back; the bare, familiar, trivial opera
began again. The box was large, and there was room for him to remain
if he would sit a little behind and in the dark. He did so for half an
hour, while Mr. Osmond remained in front, leaning forward, his elbows
on his knees, just behind Isabel. Lord Warburton heard nothing, and from
his gloomy corner saw nothing but the clear profile of this young
lady defined against the dim illumination of the house. When there was
another interval no one moved. Mr. Osmond talked to Isabel, and Lord
Warburton kept his corner. He did so but for a short time, however;
after which he got up and bade good-night to the ladies. Isabel said
nothing to detain him, but it didn't prevent his being puzzled again.
Why should she mark so one of his values--quite the wrong one--when she
would have nothing to do with another, which was quite the right? He was
angry with himself for being puzzled, and then angry for being angry.
Verdi's music did little to comfort him, and he left the theatre and
walked homeward, without knowing his way, through the tortuous, tragic
streets of Rome, where heavier sorrows than his had been carried under
the stars.
"What's the character of that gentleman?" Osmond asked of Isabel after
he had retired.
"Irreproachable--don't you see it?"
"He owns about half England; that's his character," Henrietta remarked.
"That's what they call a free country!"
"Ah, he's a great proprietor? Happy man!" said Gilbert Osmond.
"Do you call that happiness--the ownership of wretched human beings?"
cried Miss Stackpole. "He owns his tenants and has thousands of them.
It's pleasant to own something, but inanimate objects are enough for me.
I don't insist on flesh and blood and minds and consciences."
"It seems to me you own a human being or two," Mr. Bantling suggested
jocosely. "I wonder if Warburton orders his tenants about as you do me."
"Lord Warburton's a great radical," Isabel said. "He has very advanced
opinions."
"He has very advanced stone walls. His park's enclosed by a gigantic
iron fence, some thirty miles round," Henrietta announced for the
information of Mr. Osmond. "I should like him to converse with a few of
our Boston radicals."
"Don't they approve of iron fences?" asked Mr. Bantling.
"Only to shut up wicked conservatives. I always feel as if I were
talking to YOU over something with a neat top-finish of broken glass."
"Do you know him well, this unreformed reformer?" Osmond went on,
questioning Isabel.
"Well enough for all the use I have for him."
"And how much of a use is that?"
"Well, I like to like him."
"'Liking to like'--why, it makes a passion!" said Osmond.
"No"--she considered--"keep that for liking to DISlike."
"Do you wish to provoke me then," Osmond laughed, "to a passion for
HIM?"
She said nothing for a moment, but then met the light question with a
disproportionate gravity. "No, Mr. Osmond; I don't think I should ever
dare to provoke you. Lord Warburton, at any rate," she more easily
added, "is a very nice man."
"Of great ability?" her friend enquired.
"Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks."
"As good as he's good-looking do you mean? He's very good-looking. How
detestably fortunate!--to be a great English magnate, to be clever and
handsome into the bargain, and, by way of finishing off, to enjoy your
high favour! That's a man I could envy."
Isabel considered him with interest. "You seem to me to be always
envying some one. Yesterday it was the Pope; to-day it's poor Lord
Warburton."
"My envy's not dangerous; it wouldn't hurt a mouse. I don't want to
destroy the people--I only want to BE them. You see it would destroy
only myself."
"You'd like to be the Pope?" said Isabel.
"I should love it--but I should have gone in for it earlier. But
why"--Osmond reverted--"do you speak of your friend as poor?"
"Women--when they are very, very good sometimes pity men after they've
hurt them; that's their great way of showing kindness," said Ralph,
joining in the conversation for the first time and with a cynicism so
transparently ingenious as to be virtually innocent.
"Pray, have I hurt Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked, raising her eyebrows
as if the idea were perfectly fresh.
"It serves him right if you have," said Henrietta while the curtain rose
for the ballet.
Isabel saw no more of her attributive victim for the next twenty-four
hours, but on the second day after the visit to the opera she
encountered him in the gallery of the Capitol, where he stood before the
lion of the collection, the statue of the Dying Gladiator. She had come
in with her companions, among whom, on this occasion again, Gilbert
Osmond had his place, and the party, having ascended the staircase,
entered the first and finest of the rooms. Lord Warburton addressed her
alertly enough, but said in a moment that he was leaving the gallery.
"And I'm leaving Rome," he added. "I must bid you goodbye." Isabel,
inconsequently enough, was now sorry to hear it. This was perhaps
because she had ceased to be afraid of his renewing his suit; she was
thinking of something else. She was on the point of naming her regret,
but she checked herself and simply wished him a happy journey; which
made him look at her rather unlightedly. "I'm afraid you'll think me
very 'volatile.' I told you the other day I wanted so much to stop."
"Oh no; you could easily change your mind."
"That's what I have done."
"Bon voyage then."
"You're in a great hurry to get rid of me," said his lordship quite
dismally.
"Not in the least. But I hate partings."
"You don't care what I do," he went on pitifully.
Isabel looked at him a moment. "Ah," she said, "you're not keeping your
promise!"
He coloured like a boy of fifteen. "If I'm not, then it's because I
can't; and that's why I'm going."
"Good-bye then."
"Good-bye." He lingered still, however. "When shall I see you again?"
Isabel hesitated, but soon, as if she had had a happy inspiration: "Some
day after you're married."
"That will never be. It will be after you are."
"That will do as well," she smiled.
"Yes, quite as well. Good-bye."
They shook hands, and he left her alone in the glorious room, among the
shining antique marbles. She sat down in the centre of the circle of
these presences, regarding them vaguely, resting her eyes on their
beautiful blank faces; listening, as it were, to their eternal silence.
It is impossible, in Rome at least, to look long at a great company of
Greek sculptures without feeling the effect of their noble quietude;
which, as with a high door closed for the ceremony, slowly drops on
the spirit the large white mantle of peace. I say in Rome especially,
because the Roman air is an exquisite medium for such impressions. The
golden sunshine mingles with them, the deep stillness of the past, so
vivid yet, though it is nothing but a void full of names, seems to throw
a solemn spell upon them. The blinds were partly closed in the windows
of the Capitol, and a clear, warm shadow rested on the figures and made
them more mildly human. Isabel sat there a long time, under the charm
of their motionless grace, wondering to what, of their experience, their
absent eyes were open, and how, to our ears, their alien lips would
sound. The dark red walls of the room threw them into relief; the
polished marble floor reflected their beauty. She had seen them all
before, but her enjoyment repeated itself, and it was all the greater
because she was glad again, for the time, to be alone. At last, however,
her attention lapsed, drawn off by a deeper tide of life. An occasional
tourist came in, stopped and stared a moment at the Dying Gladiator, and
then passed out of the other door, creaking over the smooth pavement. At
the end of half an hour Gilbert Osmond reappeared, apparently in advance
of his companions. He strolled toward her slowly, with his hands
behind him and his usual enquiring, yet not quite appealing smile. "I'm
surprised to find you alone, I thought you had company.
"So I have--the best." And she glanced at the Antinous and the Faun.
"Do you call them better company than an English peer?"
"Ah, my English peer left me some time ago." She got up, speaking with
intention a little dryly.
Mr. Osmond noted her dryness, which contributed for him to the interest
of his question. "I'm afraid that what I heard the other evening is
true: you're rather cruel to that nobleman."
Isabel looked a moment at the vanquished Gladiator. "It's not true. I'm
scrupulously kind."
"That's exactly what I mean!" Gilbert Osmond returned, and with such
happy hilarity that his joke needs to be explained. We know that he was
fond of originals, of rarities, of the superior and the exquisite; and
now that he had seen Lord Warburton, whom he thought a very fine example
of his race and order, he perceived a new attraction in the idea of
taking to himself a young lady who had qualified herself to figure in
his collection of choice objects by declining so noble a hand. Gilbert
Osmond had a high appreciation of this particular patriciate; not so
much for its distinction, which he thought easily surpassable, as for
its solid actuality. He had never forgiven his star for not appointing
him to an English dukedom, and he could measure the unexpectedness of
such conduct as Isabel's. It would be proper that the woman he might
marry should have done something of that sort.
| In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not "to signify." This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning. | analysis |
Ralph Touchett, in talk with his excellent friend, had rather markedly
qualified, as we know, his recognition of Gilbert Osmond's personal
merits; but he might really have felt himself illiberal in the light of
that gentleman's conduct during the rest of the visit to Rome. Osmond
spent a portion of each day with Isabel and her companions, and ended
by affecting them as the easiest of men to live with. Who wouldn't have
seen that he could command, as it were, both tact and gaiety?--which
perhaps was exactly why Ralph had made his old-time look of superficial
sociability a reproach to him. Even Isabel's invidious kinsman was
obliged to admit that he was just now a delightful associate. His
good humour was imperturbable, his knowledge of the right fact, his
production of the right word, as convenient as the friendly flicker of
a match for your cigarette. Clearly he was amused--as amused as a man
could be who was so little ever surprised, and that made him almost
applausive. It was not that his spirits were visibly high--he would
never, in the concert of pleasure, touch the big drum by so much as a
knuckle: he had a mortal dislike to the high, ragged note, to what
he called random ravings. He thought Miss Archer sometimes of too
precipitate a readiness. It was pity she had that fault, because if she
had not had it she would really have had none; she would have been as
smooth to his general need of her as handled ivory to the palm. If he
was not personally loud, however, he was deep, and during these closing
days of the Roman May he knew a complacency that matched with slow
irregular walks under the pines of the Villa Borghese, among the
small sweet meadow-flowers and the mossy marbles. He was pleased with
everything; he had never before been pleased with so many things at
once. Old impressions, old enjoyments, renewed themselves; one evening,
going home to his room at the inn, he wrote down a little sonnet to
which he prefixed the title of "Rome Revisited." A day or two later he
showed this piece of correct and ingenious verse to Isabel, explaining
to her that it was an Italian fashion to commemorate the occasions of
life by a tribute to the muse.
He took his pleasures in general singly; he was too often--he would have
admitted that--too sorely aware of something wrong, something ugly; the
fertilising dew of a conceivable felicity too seldom descended on his
spirit. But at present he was happy--happier than he had perhaps ever
been in his life, and the feeling had a large foundation. This was
simply the sense of success--the most agreeable emotion of the human
heart. Osmond had never had too much of it; in this respect he had the
irritation of satiety, as he knew perfectly well and often reminded
himself. "Ah no, I've not been spoiled; certainly I've not been
spoiled," he used inwardly to repeat. "If I do succeed before I die
I shall thoroughly have earned it." He was too apt to reason as if
"earning" this boon consisted above all of covertly aching for it and
might be confined to that exercise. Absolutely void of it, also, his
career had not been; he might indeed have suggested to a spectator here
and there that he was resting on vague laurels. But his triumphs were,
some of them, now too old; others had been too easy. The present one had
been less arduous than might have been expected, but had been easy--that
is had been rapid--only because he had made an altogether exceptional
effort, a greater effort than he had believed it in him to make. The
desire to have something or other to show for his "parts"--to show
somehow or other--had been the dream of his youth; but as the years went
on the conditions attached to any marked proof of rarity had affected
him more and more as gross and detestable; like the swallowing of mugs
of beer to advertise what one could "stand." If an anonymous drawing on
a museum wall had been conscious and watchful it might have known this
peculiar pleasure of being at last and all of a sudden identified--as
from the hand of a great master--by the so high and so unnoticed fact of
style. His "style" was what the girl had discovered with a little help;
and now, beside herself enjoying it, she should publish it to the world
without his having any of the trouble. She should do the thing FOR him,
and he would not have waited in vain.
Shortly before the time fixed in advance for her departure this young
lady received from Mrs. Touchett a telegram running as follows: "Leave
Florence 4th June for Bellaggio, and take you if you have not other
views. But can't wait if you dawdle in Rome." The dawdling in Rome was
very pleasant, but Isabel had different views, and she let her aunt know
she would immediately join her. She told Gilbert Osmond that she had
done so, and he replied that, spending many of his summers as well as
his winters in Italy, he himself would loiter a little longer in the
cool shadow of Saint Peter's. He would not return to Florence for ten
days more, and in that time she would have started for Bellaggio.
It might be months in this case before he should see her again. This
exchange took place in the large decorated sitting-room occupied by our
friends at the hotel; it was late in the evening, and Ralph Touchett was
to take his cousin back to Florence on the morrow. Osmond had found the
girl alone; Miss Stackpole had contracted a friendship with a delightful
American family on the fourth floor and had mounted the interminable
staircase to pay them a visit. Henrietta contracted friendships, in
travelling, with great freedom, and had formed in railway-carriages
several that were among her most valued ties. Ralph was making
arrangements for the morrow's journey, and Isabel sat alone in a
wilderness of yellow upholstery. The chairs and sofas were orange;
the walls and windows were draped in purple and gilt. The mirrors, the
pictures had great flamboyant frames; the ceiling was deeply vaulted and
painted over with naked muses and cherubs. For Osmond the place was ugly
to distress; the false colours, the sham splendour were like vulgar,
bragging, lying talk. Isabel had taken in hand a volume of Ampere,
presented, on their arrival in Rome, by Ralph; but though she held it in
her lap with her finger vaguely kept in the place she was not impatient
to pursue her study. A lamp covered with a drooping veil of pink
tissue-paper burned on the table beside her and diffused a strange pale
rosiness over the scene.
"You say you'll come back; but who knows?" Gilbert Osmond said.
"I think you're much more likely to start on your voyage round the
world. You're under no obligation to come back; you can do exactly what
you choose; you can roam through space."
"Well, Italy's a part of space," Isabel answered. "I can take it on the
way."
"On the way round the world? No, don't do that. Don't put us in a
parenthesis--give us a chapter to ourselves. I don't want to see you on
your travels. I'd rather see you when they're over. I should like to see
you when you're tired and satiated," Osmond added in a moment. "I shall
prefer you in that state."
Isabel, with her eyes bent, fingered the pages of M. Ampere. "You turn
things into ridicule without seeming to do it, though not, I think,
without intending it. You've no respect for my travels--you think them
ridiculous."
"Where do you find that?"
She went on in the same tone, fretting the edge of her book with the
paper-knife. "You see my ignorance, my blunders, the way I wander about
as if the world belonged to me, simply because--because it has been put
into my power to do so. You don't think a woman ought to do that. You
think it bold and ungraceful."
"I think it beautiful," said Osmond. "You know my opinions--I've treated
you to enough of them. Don't you remember my telling you that one ought
to make one's life a work of art? You looked rather shocked at first;
but then I told you that it was exactly what you seemed to me to be
trying to do with your own."
She looked up from her book. "What you despise most in the world is bad,
is stupid art."
"Possibly. But yours seem to me very clear and very good."
"If I were to go to Japan next winter you would laugh at me," she went
on.
Osmond gave a smile--a keen one, but not a laugh, for the tone of their
conversation was not jocose. Isabel had in fact her solemnity; he had
seen it before. "You have one!"
"That's exactly what I say. You think such an idea absurd."
"I would give my little finger to go to Japan; it's one of the countries
I want most to see. Can't you believe that, with my taste for old
lacquer?"
"I haven't a taste for old lacquer to excuse me," said Isabel.
"You've a better excuse--the means of going. You're quite wrong in
your theory that I laugh at you. I don't know what has put it into your
head."
"It wouldn't be remarkable if you did think it ridiculous that I should
have the means to travel when you've not; for you know everything and I
know nothing."
"The more reason why you should travel and learn," smiled Osmond.
"Besides," he added as if it were a point to be made, "I don't know
everything."
Isabel was not struck with the oddity of his saying this gravely; she
was thinking that the pleasantest incident of her life--so it pleased
her to qualify these too few days in Rome, which she might musingly have
likened to the figure of some small princess of one of the ages of dress
overmuffled in a mantle of state and dragging a train that it took pages
or historians to hold up--that this felicity was coming to an end. That
most of the interest of the time had been owing to Mr. Osmond was a
reflexion she was not just now at pains to make; she had already done
the point abundant justice. But she said to herself that if there were
a danger they should never meet again, perhaps after all it would be
as well. Happy things don't repeat themselves, and her adventure wore
already the changed, the seaward face of some romantic island from
which, after feasting on purple grapes, she was putting off while the
breeze rose. She might come back to Italy and find him different--this
strange man who pleased her just as he was; and it would be better
not to come than run the risk of that. But if she was not to come the
greater the pity that the chapter was closed; she felt for a moment a
pang that touched the source of tears. The sensation kept her
silent, and Gilbert Osmond was silent too; he was looking at her. "Go
everywhere," he said at last, in a low, kind voice; "do everything; get
everything out of life. Be happy,--be triumphant."
"What do you mean by being triumphant?"
"Well, doing what you like."
"To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail! Doing all the vain things
one likes is often very tiresome."
"Exactly," said Osmond with his quiet quickness. "As I intimated just
now, you'll be tired some day." He paused a moment and then he went on:
"I don't know whether I had better not wait till then for something I
want to say to you."
"Ah, I can't advise you without knowing what it is. But I'm horrid when
I'm tired," Isabel added with due inconsequence.
"I don't believe that. You're angry, sometimes--that I can believe,
though I've never seen it. But I'm sure you're never 'cross.'"
"Not even when I lose my temper?"
"You don't lose it--you find it, and that must be beautiful." Osmond
spoke with a noble earnestness. "They must be great moments to see."
"If I could only find it now!" Isabel nervously cried.
"I'm not afraid; I should fold my arms and admire you. I'm speaking very
seriously." He leaned forward, a hand on each knee; for some moments he
bent his eyes on the floor. "What I wish to say to you," he went on at
last, looking up, "is that I find I'm in love with you."
She instantly rose. "Ah, keep that till I am tired!"
"Tired of hearing it from others?" He sat there raising his eyes to her.
"No, you may heed it now or never, as you please. But after all I must
say it now." She had turned away, but in the movement she had stopped
herself and dropped her gaze upon him. The two remained a while in this
situation, exchanging a long look--the large, conscious look of the
critical hours of life. Then he got up and came near her, deeply
respectful, as if he were afraid he had been too familiar. "I'm
absolutely in love with you."
He had repeated the announcement in a tone of almost impersonal
discretion, like a man who expected very little from it but who spoke
for his own needed relief. The tears came into her eyes: this time
they obeyed the sharpness of the pang that suggested to her somehow
the slipping of a fine bolt--backward, forward, she couldn't have said
which. The words he had uttered made him, as he stood there, beautiful
and generous, invested him as with the golden air of early autumn; but,
morally speaking, she retreated before them--facing him still--as she
had retreated in the other cases before a like encounter. "Oh don't say
that, please," she answered with an intensity that expressed the dread
of having, in this case too, to choose and decide. What made her dread
great was precisely the force which, as it would seem, ought to have
banished all dread--the sense of something within herself, deep down,
that she supposed to be inspired and trustful passion. It was there
like a large sum stored in a bank--which there was a terror in having to
begin to spend. If she touched it, it would all come out.
"I haven't the idea that it will matter much to you," said Osmond. "I've
too little to offer you. What I have--it's enough for me; but it's not
enough for you. I've neither fortune, nor fame, nor extrinsic advantages
of any kind. So I offer nothing. I only tell you because I think it
can't offend you, and some day or other it may give you pleasure. It
gives me pleasure, I assure you," he went on, standing there before her,
considerately inclined to her, turning his hat, which he had taken
up, slowly round with a movement which had all the decent tremor of
awkwardness and none of its oddity, and presenting to her his firm,
refined, slightly ravaged face. "It gives me no pain, because it's
perfectly simple. For me you'll always be the most important woman in
the world."
Isabel looked at herself in this character--looked intently, thinking
she filled it with a certain grace. But what she said was not an
expression of any such complacency. "You don't offend me; but you
ought to remember that, without being offended, one may be incommoded,
troubled." "Incommoded," she heard herself saying that, and it struck
her as a ridiculous word. But it was what stupidly came to her.
"I remember perfectly. Of course you're surprised and startled. But
if it's nothing but that, it will pass away. And it will perhaps leave
something that I may not be ashamed of."
"I don't know what it may leave. You see at all events that I'm not
overwhelmed," said Isabel with rather a pale smile. "I'm not too
troubled to think. And I think that I'm glad I leave Rome to-morrow."
"Of course I don't agree with you there."
"I don't at all KNOW you," she added abruptly; and then she coloured as
she heard herself saying what she had said almost a year before to Lord
Warburton.
"If you were not going away you'd know me better."
"I shall do that some other time."
"I hope so. I'm very easy to know."
"No, no," she emphatically answered--"there you're not sincere. You're
not easy to know; no one could be less so."
"Well," he laughed, "I said that because I know myself. It may be a
boast, but I do."
"Very likely; but you're very wise."
"So are you, Miss Archer!" Osmond exclaimed.
"I don't feel so just now. Still, I'm wise enough to think you had
better go. Good-night."
"God bless you!" said Gilbert Osmond, taking the hand which she failed
to surrender. After which he added: "If we meet again you'll find me as
you leave me. If we don't I shall be so all the same."
"Thank you very much. Good-bye."
There was something quietly firm about Isabel's visitor; he might go of
his own movement, but wouldn't be dismissed. "There's one thing more.
I haven't asked anything of you--not even a thought in the future; you
must do me that justice. But there's a little service I should like to
ask. I shall not return home for several days; Rome's delightful, and
it's a good place for a man in my state of mind. Oh, I know you're sorry
to leave it; but you're right to do what your aunt wishes."
"She doesn't even wish it!" Isabel broke out strangely.
Osmond was apparently on the point of saying something that would match
these words, but he changed his mind and rejoined simply: "Ah well, it's
proper you should go with her, very proper. Do everything that's proper;
I go in for that. Excuse my being so patronising. You say you don't
know me, but when you do you'll discover what a worship I have for
propriety."
"You're not conventional?" Isabel gravely asked.
"I like the way you utter that word! No, I'm not conventional: I'm
convention itself. You don't understand that?" And he paused a moment,
smiling. "I should like to explain it." Then with a sudden, quick,
bright naturalness, "Do come back again," he pleaded. "There are so many
things we might talk about."
She stood there with lowered eyes. "What service did you speak of just
now?"
"Go and see my little daughter before you leave Florence. She's alone at
the villa; I decided not to send her to my sister, who hasn't at all my
ideas. Tell her she must love her poor father very much," said Gilbert
Osmond gently.
"It will be a great pleasure to me to go," Isabel answered. "I'll tell
her what you say. Once more good-bye."
On this he took a rapid, respectful leave. When he had gone she stood
a moment looking about her and seated herself slowly and with an air of
deliberation. She sat there till her companions came back, with
folded hands, gazing at the ugly carpet. Her agitation--for it had not
diminished--was very still, very deep. What had happened was something
that for a week past her imagination had been going forward to meet; but
here, when it came, she stopped--that sublime principle somehow broke
down. The working of this young lady's spirit was strange, and I can
only give it to you as I see it, not hoping to make it seem altogether
natural. Her imagination, as I say, now hung back: there was a last
vague space it couldn't cross--a dusky, uncertain tract which looked
ambiguous and even slightly treacherous, like a moorland seen in the
winter twilight. But she was to cross it yet.
| Ralph notes that Osmond is a very agreeable companion. We learn that Osmond thinks Isabel is a fine figure, but that she has the fault of being too ready, too precipitate. Osmond feels quite happy and he even writes Isabel a sonnet. He has a sense of success. He had never tried much for such success, but he definitely would have felt he would have earned it, if he had had it. He knew he had style, and he felt Isabel would help him show it to the world. Isabel receives a note from her aunt, with her aunt telling her she will take her to Bellagio. Before she leaves, Osmond tells her that she will probably go and travel the world; that she is under no obligation to come back. He tells her that he has no desire to see her while she is travelling, and would prefer it if she simply visit him once she has done travelling. Isabel accuses him of thinking her travels ridiculous. He replies that this is not true, and that he believes one should make one's life a work of art. He tells her to go out and do what she likes. He tells her that he loves her. Isabel feels herself retreat, shocked by the words. He says that he only tells her because he thinks it will not offend her, and he admits he has nothing to offer her. She will always be the most important woman in the world to him, he declares. The narrator tells her "Isabel looked at herself in this character". She likes the image, but she reacts otherwise. He asks her to just do him a small favor when she returns to her aunt's home: he would like her to visit his daughter, Pansy, whom he has left alone during his trip to Rome. Isabel says she will do him this favor, and she dismisses him. When he leaves her alone, Isabel realizes that her imagination had been going forward to meet this moment, but when it had come, she is entirely shocked. The narrator declares Isabel's reaction odd, mentioning that her imagination is a "vague space" that could not seem to breach dangerous territory | summary |
Ralph Touchett, in talk with his excellent friend, had rather markedly
qualified, as we know, his recognition of Gilbert Osmond's personal
merits; but he might really have felt himself illiberal in the light of
that gentleman's conduct during the rest of the visit to Rome. Osmond
spent a portion of each day with Isabel and her companions, and ended
by affecting them as the easiest of men to live with. Who wouldn't have
seen that he could command, as it were, both tact and gaiety?--which
perhaps was exactly why Ralph had made his old-time look of superficial
sociability a reproach to him. Even Isabel's invidious kinsman was
obliged to admit that he was just now a delightful associate. His
good humour was imperturbable, his knowledge of the right fact, his
production of the right word, as convenient as the friendly flicker of
a match for your cigarette. Clearly he was amused--as amused as a man
could be who was so little ever surprised, and that made him almost
applausive. It was not that his spirits were visibly high--he would
never, in the concert of pleasure, touch the big drum by so much as a
knuckle: he had a mortal dislike to the high, ragged note, to what
he called random ravings. He thought Miss Archer sometimes of too
precipitate a readiness. It was pity she had that fault, because if she
had not had it she would really have had none; she would have been as
smooth to his general need of her as handled ivory to the palm. If he
was not personally loud, however, he was deep, and during these closing
days of the Roman May he knew a complacency that matched with slow
irregular walks under the pines of the Villa Borghese, among the
small sweet meadow-flowers and the mossy marbles. He was pleased with
everything; he had never before been pleased with so many things at
once. Old impressions, old enjoyments, renewed themselves; one evening,
going home to his room at the inn, he wrote down a little sonnet to
which he prefixed the title of "Rome Revisited." A day or two later he
showed this piece of correct and ingenious verse to Isabel, explaining
to her that it was an Italian fashion to commemorate the occasions of
life by a tribute to the muse.
He took his pleasures in general singly; he was too often--he would have
admitted that--too sorely aware of something wrong, something ugly; the
fertilising dew of a conceivable felicity too seldom descended on his
spirit. But at present he was happy--happier than he had perhaps ever
been in his life, and the feeling had a large foundation. This was
simply the sense of success--the most agreeable emotion of the human
heart. Osmond had never had too much of it; in this respect he had the
irritation of satiety, as he knew perfectly well and often reminded
himself. "Ah no, I've not been spoiled; certainly I've not been
spoiled," he used inwardly to repeat. "If I do succeed before I die
I shall thoroughly have earned it." He was too apt to reason as if
"earning" this boon consisted above all of covertly aching for it and
might be confined to that exercise. Absolutely void of it, also, his
career had not been; he might indeed have suggested to a spectator here
and there that he was resting on vague laurels. But his triumphs were,
some of them, now too old; others had been too easy. The present one had
been less arduous than might have been expected, but had been easy--that
is had been rapid--only because he had made an altogether exceptional
effort, a greater effort than he had believed it in him to make. The
desire to have something or other to show for his "parts"--to show
somehow or other--had been the dream of his youth; but as the years went
on the conditions attached to any marked proof of rarity had affected
him more and more as gross and detestable; like the swallowing of mugs
of beer to advertise what one could "stand." If an anonymous drawing on
a museum wall had been conscious and watchful it might have known this
peculiar pleasure of being at last and all of a sudden identified--as
from the hand of a great master--by the so high and so unnoticed fact of
style. His "style" was what the girl had discovered with a little help;
and now, beside herself enjoying it, she should publish it to the world
without his having any of the trouble. She should do the thing FOR him,
and he would not have waited in vain.
Shortly before the time fixed in advance for her departure this young
lady received from Mrs. Touchett a telegram running as follows: "Leave
Florence 4th June for Bellaggio, and take you if you have not other
views. But can't wait if you dawdle in Rome." The dawdling in Rome was
very pleasant, but Isabel had different views, and she let her aunt know
she would immediately join her. She told Gilbert Osmond that she had
done so, and he replied that, spending many of his summers as well as
his winters in Italy, he himself would loiter a little longer in the
cool shadow of Saint Peter's. He would not return to Florence for ten
days more, and in that time she would have started for Bellaggio.
It might be months in this case before he should see her again. This
exchange took place in the large decorated sitting-room occupied by our
friends at the hotel; it was late in the evening, and Ralph Touchett was
to take his cousin back to Florence on the morrow. Osmond had found the
girl alone; Miss Stackpole had contracted a friendship with a delightful
American family on the fourth floor and had mounted the interminable
staircase to pay them a visit. Henrietta contracted friendships, in
travelling, with great freedom, and had formed in railway-carriages
several that were among her most valued ties. Ralph was making
arrangements for the morrow's journey, and Isabel sat alone in a
wilderness of yellow upholstery. The chairs and sofas were orange;
the walls and windows were draped in purple and gilt. The mirrors, the
pictures had great flamboyant frames; the ceiling was deeply vaulted and
painted over with naked muses and cherubs. For Osmond the place was ugly
to distress; the false colours, the sham splendour were like vulgar,
bragging, lying talk. Isabel had taken in hand a volume of Ampere,
presented, on their arrival in Rome, by Ralph; but though she held it in
her lap with her finger vaguely kept in the place she was not impatient
to pursue her study. A lamp covered with a drooping veil of pink
tissue-paper burned on the table beside her and diffused a strange pale
rosiness over the scene.
"You say you'll come back; but who knows?" Gilbert Osmond said.
"I think you're much more likely to start on your voyage round the
world. You're under no obligation to come back; you can do exactly what
you choose; you can roam through space."
"Well, Italy's a part of space," Isabel answered. "I can take it on the
way."
"On the way round the world? No, don't do that. Don't put us in a
parenthesis--give us a chapter to ourselves. I don't want to see you on
your travels. I'd rather see you when they're over. I should like to see
you when you're tired and satiated," Osmond added in a moment. "I shall
prefer you in that state."
Isabel, with her eyes bent, fingered the pages of M. Ampere. "You turn
things into ridicule without seeming to do it, though not, I think,
without intending it. You've no respect for my travels--you think them
ridiculous."
"Where do you find that?"
She went on in the same tone, fretting the edge of her book with the
paper-knife. "You see my ignorance, my blunders, the way I wander about
as if the world belonged to me, simply because--because it has been put
into my power to do so. You don't think a woman ought to do that. You
think it bold and ungraceful."
"I think it beautiful," said Osmond. "You know my opinions--I've treated
you to enough of them. Don't you remember my telling you that one ought
to make one's life a work of art? You looked rather shocked at first;
but then I told you that it was exactly what you seemed to me to be
trying to do with your own."
She looked up from her book. "What you despise most in the world is bad,
is stupid art."
"Possibly. But yours seem to me very clear and very good."
"If I were to go to Japan next winter you would laugh at me," she went
on.
Osmond gave a smile--a keen one, but not a laugh, for the tone of their
conversation was not jocose. Isabel had in fact her solemnity; he had
seen it before. "You have one!"
"That's exactly what I say. You think such an idea absurd."
"I would give my little finger to go to Japan; it's one of the countries
I want most to see. Can't you believe that, with my taste for old
lacquer?"
"I haven't a taste for old lacquer to excuse me," said Isabel.
"You've a better excuse--the means of going. You're quite wrong in
your theory that I laugh at you. I don't know what has put it into your
head."
"It wouldn't be remarkable if you did think it ridiculous that I should
have the means to travel when you've not; for you know everything and I
know nothing."
"The more reason why you should travel and learn," smiled Osmond.
"Besides," he added as if it were a point to be made, "I don't know
everything."
Isabel was not struck with the oddity of his saying this gravely; she
was thinking that the pleasantest incident of her life--so it pleased
her to qualify these too few days in Rome, which she might musingly have
likened to the figure of some small princess of one of the ages of dress
overmuffled in a mantle of state and dragging a train that it took pages
or historians to hold up--that this felicity was coming to an end. That
most of the interest of the time had been owing to Mr. Osmond was a
reflexion she was not just now at pains to make; she had already done
the point abundant justice. But she said to herself that if there were
a danger they should never meet again, perhaps after all it would be
as well. Happy things don't repeat themselves, and her adventure wore
already the changed, the seaward face of some romantic island from
which, after feasting on purple grapes, she was putting off while the
breeze rose. She might come back to Italy and find him different--this
strange man who pleased her just as he was; and it would be better
not to come than run the risk of that. But if she was not to come the
greater the pity that the chapter was closed; she felt for a moment a
pang that touched the source of tears. The sensation kept her
silent, and Gilbert Osmond was silent too; he was looking at her. "Go
everywhere," he said at last, in a low, kind voice; "do everything; get
everything out of life. Be happy,--be triumphant."
"What do you mean by being triumphant?"
"Well, doing what you like."
"To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail! Doing all the vain things
one likes is often very tiresome."
"Exactly," said Osmond with his quiet quickness. "As I intimated just
now, you'll be tired some day." He paused a moment and then he went on:
"I don't know whether I had better not wait till then for something I
want to say to you."
"Ah, I can't advise you without knowing what it is. But I'm horrid when
I'm tired," Isabel added with due inconsequence.
"I don't believe that. You're angry, sometimes--that I can believe,
though I've never seen it. But I'm sure you're never 'cross.'"
"Not even when I lose my temper?"
"You don't lose it--you find it, and that must be beautiful." Osmond
spoke with a noble earnestness. "They must be great moments to see."
"If I could only find it now!" Isabel nervously cried.
"I'm not afraid; I should fold my arms and admire you. I'm speaking very
seriously." He leaned forward, a hand on each knee; for some moments he
bent his eyes on the floor. "What I wish to say to you," he went on at
last, looking up, "is that I find I'm in love with you."
She instantly rose. "Ah, keep that till I am tired!"
"Tired of hearing it from others?" He sat there raising his eyes to her.
"No, you may heed it now or never, as you please. But after all I must
say it now." She had turned away, but in the movement she had stopped
herself and dropped her gaze upon him. The two remained a while in this
situation, exchanging a long look--the large, conscious look of the
critical hours of life. Then he got up and came near her, deeply
respectful, as if he were afraid he had been too familiar. "I'm
absolutely in love with you."
He had repeated the announcement in a tone of almost impersonal
discretion, like a man who expected very little from it but who spoke
for his own needed relief. The tears came into her eyes: this time
they obeyed the sharpness of the pang that suggested to her somehow
the slipping of a fine bolt--backward, forward, she couldn't have said
which. The words he had uttered made him, as he stood there, beautiful
and generous, invested him as with the golden air of early autumn; but,
morally speaking, she retreated before them--facing him still--as she
had retreated in the other cases before a like encounter. "Oh don't say
that, please," she answered with an intensity that expressed the dread
of having, in this case too, to choose and decide. What made her dread
great was precisely the force which, as it would seem, ought to have
banished all dread--the sense of something within herself, deep down,
that she supposed to be inspired and trustful passion. It was there
like a large sum stored in a bank--which there was a terror in having to
begin to spend. If she touched it, it would all come out.
"I haven't the idea that it will matter much to you," said Osmond. "I've
too little to offer you. What I have--it's enough for me; but it's not
enough for you. I've neither fortune, nor fame, nor extrinsic advantages
of any kind. So I offer nothing. I only tell you because I think it
can't offend you, and some day or other it may give you pleasure. It
gives me pleasure, I assure you," he went on, standing there before her,
considerately inclined to her, turning his hat, which he had taken
up, slowly round with a movement which had all the decent tremor of
awkwardness and none of its oddity, and presenting to her his firm,
refined, slightly ravaged face. "It gives me no pain, because it's
perfectly simple. For me you'll always be the most important woman in
the world."
Isabel looked at herself in this character--looked intently, thinking
she filled it with a certain grace. But what she said was not an
expression of any such complacency. "You don't offend me; but you
ought to remember that, without being offended, one may be incommoded,
troubled." "Incommoded," she heard herself saying that, and it struck
her as a ridiculous word. But it was what stupidly came to her.
"I remember perfectly. Of course you're surprised and startled. But
if it's nothing but that, it will pass away. And it will perhaps leave
something that I may not be ashamed of."
"I don't know what it may leave. You see at all events that I'm not
overwhelmed," said Isabel with rather a pale smile. "I'm not too
troubled to think. And I think that I'm glad I leave Rome to-morrow."
"Of course I don't agree with you there."
"I don't at all KNOW you," she added abruptly; and then she coloured as
she heard herself saying what she had said almost a year before to Lord
Warburton.
"If you were not going away you'd know me better."
"I shall do that some other time."
"I hope so. I'm very easy to know."
"No, no," she emphatically answered--"there you're not sincere. You're
not easy to know; no one could be less so."
"Well," he laughed, "I said that because I know myself. It may be a
boast, but I do."
"Very likely; but you're very wise."
"So are you, Miss Archer!" Osmond exclaimed.
"I don't feel so just now. Still, I'm wise enough to think you had
better go. Good-night."
"God bless you!" said Gilbert Osmond, taking the hand which she failed
to surrender. After which he added: "If we meet again you'll find me as
you leave me. If we don't I shall be so all the same."
"Thank you very much. Good-bye."
There was something quietly firm about Isabel's visitor; he might go of
his own movement, but wouldn't be dismissed. "There's one thing more.
I haven't asked anything of you--not even a thought in the future; you
must do me that justice. But there's a little service I should like to
ask. I shall not return home for several days; Rome's delightful, and
it's a good place for a man in my state of mind. Oh, I know you're sorry
to leave it; but you're right to do what your aunt wishes."
"She doesn't even wish it!" Isabel broke out strangely.
Osmond was apparently on the point of saying something that would match
these words, but he changed his mind and rejoined simply: "Ah well, it's
proper you should go with her, very proper. Do everything that's proper;
I go in for that. Excuse my being so patronising. You say you don't
know me, but when you do you'll discover what a worship I have for
propriety."
"You're not conventional?" Isabel gravely asked.
"I like the way you utter that word! No, I'm not conventional: I'm
convention itself. You don't understand that?" And he paused a moment,
smiling. "I should like to explain it." Then with a sudden, quick,
bright naturalness, "Do come back again," he pleaded. "There are so many
things we might talk about."
She stood there with lowered eyes. "What service did you speak of just
now?"
"Go and see my little daughter before you leave Florence. She's alone at
the villa; I decided not to send her to my sister, who hasn't at all my
ideas. Tell her she must love her poor father very much," said Gilbert
Osmond gently.
"It will be a great pleasure to me to go," Isabel answered. "I'll tell
her what you say. Once more good-bye."
On this he took a rapid, respectful leave. When he had gone she stood
a moment looking about her and seated herself slowly and with an air of
deliberation. She sat there till her companions came back, with
folded hands, gazing at the ugly carpet. Her agitation--for it had not
diminished--was very still, very deep. What had happened was something
that for a week past her imagination had been going forward to meet; but
here, when it came, she stopped--that sublime principle somehow broke
down. The working of this young lady's spirit was strange, and I can
only give it to you as I see it, not hoping to make it seem altogether
natural. Her imagination, as I say, now hung back: there was a last
vague space it couldn't cross--a dusky, uncertain tract which looked
ambiguous and even slightly treacherous, like a moorland seen in the
winter twilight. But she was to cross it yet.
| In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not "to signify." This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning. | analysis |
She returned on the morrow to Florence, under her cousin's escort, and
Ralph Touchett, though usually restive under railway discipline, thought
very well of the successive hours passed in the train that hurried
his companion away from the city now distinguished by Gilbert Osmond's
preference--hours that were to form the first stage in a larger scheme
of travel. Miss Stackpole had remained behind; she was planning a little
trip to Naples, to be carried out with Mr. Bantling's aid. Isabel was
to have three days in Florence before the 4th of June, the date of Mrs.
Touchett's departure, and she determined to devote the last of these
to her promise to call on Pansy Osmond. Her plan, however, seemed for
a moment likely to modify itself in deference to an idea of Madame
Merle's. This lady was still at Casa Touchett; but she too was on the
point of leaving Florence, her next station being an ancient castle
in the mountains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of that
country, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said, "forever")
seemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographs of their immense
crenellated dwelling which her friend was able to show her, a precious
privilege. She mentioned to this fortunate woman that Mr. Osmond had
asked her to take a look at his daughter, but didn't mention that he had
also made her a declaration of love.
"Ah, comme cela se trouve!" Madame Merle exclaimed. "I myself have been
thinking it would be a kindness to pay the child a little visit before I
go off."
"We can go together then," Isabel reasonably said: "reasonably" because
the proposal was not uttered in the spirit of enthusiasm. She had
prefigured her small pilgrimage as made in solitude; she should like
it better so. She was nevertheless prepared to sacrifice this mystic
sentiment to her great consideration for her friend.
That personage finely meditated. "After all, why should we both go;
having, each of us, so much to do during these last hours?"
"Very good; I can easily go alone."
"I don't know about your going alone--to the house of a handsome
bachelor. He has been married--but so long ago!"
Isabel stared. "When Mr. Osmond's away what does it matter?"
"They don't know he's away, you see."
"They? Whom do you mean?"
"Every one. But perhaps it doesn't signify."
"If you were going why shouldn't I?" Isabel asked.
"Because I'm an old frump and you're a beautiful young woman."
"Granting all that, you've not promised."
"How much you think of your promises!" said the elder woman in mild
mockery.
"I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?"
"You're right," Madame Merle audibly reflected. "I really think you wish
to be kind to the child."
"I wish very much to be kind to her."
"Go and see her then; no one will be the wiser. And tell her I'd have
come if you hadn't. Or rather," Madame Merle added, "DON'T tell her. She
won't care."
As Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along the winding
way which led to Mr. Osmond's hill-top, she wondered what her friend had
meant by no one's being the wiser. Once in a while, at large intervals,
this lady, whose voyaging discretion, as a general thing, was rather of
the open sea than of the risky channel, dropped a remark of ambiguous
quality, struck a note that sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer for
the vulgar judgements of obscure people? and did Madame Merle suppose
that she was capable of doing a thing at all if it had to be sneakingly
done? Of course not: she must have meant something else--something which
in the press of the hours that preceded her departure she had not had
time to explain. Isabel would return to this some day; there were sorts
of things as to which she liked to be clear. She heard Pansy strumming
at the piano in another place as she herself was ushered into Mr.
Osmond's drawing-room; the little girl was "practising," and Isabel was
pleased to think she performed this duty with rigour. She immediately
came in, smoothing down her frock, and did the honours of her father's
house with a wide-eyed earnestness of courtesy. Isabel sat there half an
hour, and Pansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in the
pantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wire--not chattering, but
conversing, and showing the same respectful interest in Isabel's affairs
that Isabel was so good as to take in hers. Isabel wondered at her;
she had never had so directly presented to her nose the white flower
of cultivated sweetness. How well the child had been taught, said our
admiring young woman; how prettily she had been directed and fashioned;
and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! Isabel
was fond, ever, of the question of character and quality, of sounding,
as who should say, the deep personal mystery, and it had pleased her,
up to this time, to be in doubt as to whether this tender slip were not
really all-knowing. Was the extremity of her candour but the perfection
of self-consciousness? Was it put on to please her father's visitor,
or was it the direct expression of an unspotted nature? The hour that
Isabel spent in Mr. Osmond's beautiful empty, dusky rooms--the windows
had been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and here and there,
through an easy crevice, the splendid summer day peeped in, lighting a
gleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt in the rich gloom--her interview
with the daughter of the house, I say, effectually settled this
question. Pansy was really a blank page, a pure white surface,
successfully kept so; she had neither art, nor guile, nor temper, nor
talent--only two or three small exquisite instincts: for knowing a
friend, for avoiding a mistake, for taking care of an old toy or a new
frock. Yet to be so tender was to be touching withal, and she could
be felt as an easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to
resist, no sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified,
easily crushed: her force would be all in knowing when and where to
cling. She moved about the place with her visitor, who had asked leave
to walk through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgement on
several works of art. She spoke of her prospects, her occupations, her
father's intentions; she was not egotistical, but felt the propriety
of supplying the information so distinguished a guest would naturally
expect.
"Please tell me," she said, "did papa, in Rome, go to see Madame
Catherine? He told me he would if he had time. Perhaps he had not time.
Papa likes a great deal of time. He wished to speak about my education;
it isn't finished yet, you know. I don't know what they can do with me
more; but it appears it's far from finished. Papa told me one day he
thought he would finish it himself; for the last year or two, at the
convent, the masters that teach the tall girls are so very dear. Papa's
not rich, and I should be very sorry if he were to pay much money for
me, because I don't think I'm worth it. I don't learn quickly enough,
and I have no memory. For what I'm told, yes--especially when it's
pleasant; but not for what I learn in a book. There was a young girl who
was my best friend, and they took her away from the convent, when she
was fourteen, to make--how do you say it in English?--to make a dot. You
don't say it in English? I hope it isn't wrong; I only mean they wished
to keep the money to marry her. I don't know whether it is for that that
papa wishes to keep the money--to marry me. It costs so much to marry!"
Pansy went on with a sigh; "I think papa might make that economy. At
any rate I'm too young to think about it yet, and I don't care for any
gentleman; I mean for any but him. If he were not my papa I should like
to marry him; I would rather be his daughter than the wife of--of some
strange person. I miss him very much, but not so much as you might
think, for I've been so much away from him. Papa has always been
principally for holidays. I miss Madame Catherine almost more; but you
must not tell him that. You shall not see him again? I'm very sorry,
and he'll be sorry too. Of everyone who comes here I like you the best.
That's not a great compliment, for there are not many people. It was
very kind of you to come to-day--so far from your house; for I'm really
as yet only a child. Oh, yes, I've only the occupations of a child. When
did YOU give them up, the occupations of a child? I should like to know
how old you are, but I don't know whether it's right to ask. At the
convent they told us that we must never ask the age. I don't like to do
anything that's not expected; it looks as if one had not been properly
taught. I myself--I should never like to be taken by surprise. Papa left
directions for everything. I go to bed very early. When the sun goes off
that side I go into the garden. Papa left strict orders that I was not
to get scorched. I always enjoy the view; the mountains are so graceful.
In Rome, from the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. I
practise three hours. I don't play very well. You play yourself? I wish
very much you'd play something for me; papa has the idea that I should
hear good music. Madame Merle has played for me several times; that's
what I like best about Madame Merle; she has great facility. I shall
never have facility. And I've no voice--just a small sound like the
squeak of a slate-pencil making flourishes."
Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat down
to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her white
hands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped she kissed the child
good-bye, held her close, looked at her long. "Be very good," she said;
"give pleasure to your father."
"I think that's what I live for," Pansy answered. "He has not much
pleasure; he's rather a sad man."
Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she felt it
almost a torment to be obliged to conceal. It was her pride that obliged
her, and a certain sense of decency; there were still other things in
her head which she felt a strong impulse, instantly checked, to say
to Pansy about her father; there were things it would have given her
pleasure to hear the child, to make the child, say. But she no sooner
became conscious of these things than her imagination was hushed with
horror at the idea of taking advantage of the little girl--it was of
this she would have accused herself--and of exhaling into that air where
he might still have a subtle sense for it any breath of her charmed
state. She had come--she had come; but she had stayed only an hour. She
rose quickly from the music-stool; even then, however, she lingered a
moment, still holding her small companion, drawing the child's sweet
slimness closer and looking down at her almost in envy. She was obliged
to confess it to herself--she would have taken a passionate pleasure in
talking of Gilbert Osmond to this innocent, diminutive creature who
was so near him. But she said no other word; she only kissed Pansy once
again. They went together through the vestibule, to the door that
opened on the court; and there her young hostess stopped, looking rather
wistfully beyond. "I may go no further. I've promised papa not to pass
this door."
"You're right to obey him; he'll never ask you anything unreasonable."
"I shall always obey him. But when will you come again?"
"Not for a long time, I'm afraid."
"As soon as you can, I hope. I'm only a little girl," said Pansy, "but
I shall always expect you." And the small figure stood in the high, dark
doorway, watching Isabel cross the clear, grey court and disappear into
the brightness beyond the big portone, which gave a wider dazzle as it
opened.
| Isabel announces her intention to visit Pansy to Madame Merle, but Merle cautions her that it might not look appropriate, since Gilbert Osmond is a bachelor. Isabel wonders what it matters, as Osmond is not there currently. Merle responds, "They don't know he's away, you see. Isabel asks whom she means. She responds, "Everyone. But perhaps it doesn't signify". Isabel goes to visit Pansy anyway. She is extremely impressed by the young creature, noting how innocent she is. She wonders if perhaps the natural mannerism of the child is really the "perfection of self-consciousness". The narrator thinks that Pansy is really a blank page, which really has no will and could be easily mystified. Pansy mentions to Isabel how a friend of hers has been withdrawn from the convent in order to save money for her dowry. She wonders if that is the reason why she is being withdrawn from the convent. She notes that it costs much money to marry, but she wishes really only to stay with her father for her whole life. Pansy says she lives for her father, to make him happy. Isabel leaves, feeling like she would have liked to tell Pansy something about her father, but that she will have ruined Pansy's innocence if she does | summary |
She returned on the morrow to Florence, under her cousin's escort, and
Ralph Touchett, though usually restive under railway discipline, thought
very well of the successive hours passed in the train that hurried
his companion away from the city now distinguished by Gilbert Osmond's
preference--hours that were to form the first stage in a larger scheme
of travel. Miss Stackpole had remained behind; she was planning a little
trip to Naples, to be carried out with Mr. Bantling's aid. Isabel was
to have three days in Florence before the 4th of June, the date of Mrs.
Touchett's departure, and she determined to devote the last of these
to her promise to call on Pansy Osmond. Her plan, however, seemed for
a moment likely to modify itself in deference to an idea of Madame
Merle's. This lady was still at Casa Touchett; but she too was on the
point of leaving Florence, her next station being an ancient castle
in the mountains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of that
country, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said, "forever")
seemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographs of their immense
crenellated dwelling which her friend was able to show her, a precious
privilege. She mentioned to this fortunate woman that Mr. Osmond had
asked her to take a look at his daughter, but didn't mention that he had
also made her a declaration of love.
"Ah, comme cela se trouve!" Madame Merle exclaimed. "I myself have been
thinking it would be a kindness to pay the child a little visit before I
go off."
"We can go together then," Isabel reasonably said: "reasonably" because
the proposal was not uttered in the spirit of enthusiasm. She had
prefigured her small pilgrimage as made in solitude; she should like
it better so. She was nevertheless prepared to sacrifice this mystic
sentiment to her great consideration for her friend.
That personage finely meditated. "After all, why should we both go;
having, each of us, so much to do during these last hours?"
"Very good; I can easily go alone."
"I don't know about your going alone--to the house of a handsome
bachelor. He has been married--but so long ago!"
Isabel stared. "When Mr. Osmond's away what does it matter?"
"They don't know he's away, you see."
"They? Whom do you mean?"
"Every one. But perhaps it doesn't signify."
"If you were going why shouldn't I?" Isabel asked.
"Because I'm an old frump and you're a beautiful young woman."
"Granting all that, you've not promised."
"How much you think of your promises!" said the elder woman in mild
mockery.
"I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?"
"You're right," Madame Merle audibly reflected. "I really think you wish
to be kind to the child."
"I wish very much to be kind to her."
"Go and see her then; no one will be the wiser. And tell her I'd have
come if you hadn't. Or rather," Madame Merle added, "DON'T tell her. She
won't care."
As Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along the winding
way which led to Mr. Osmond's hill-top, she wondered what her friend had
meant by no one's being the wiser. Once in a while, at large intervals,
this lady, whose voyaging discretion, as a general thing, was rather of
the open sea than of the risky channel, dropped a remark of ambiguous
quality, struck a note that sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer for
the vulgar judgements of obscure people? and did Madame Merle suppose
that she was capable of doing a thing at all if it had to be sneakingly
done? Of course not: she must have meant something else--something which
in the press of the hours that preceded her departure she had not had
time to explain. Isabel would return to this some day; there were sorts
of things as to which she liked to be clear. She heard Pansy strumming
at the piano in another place as she herself was ushered into Mr.
Osmond's drawing-room; the little girl was "practising," and Isabel was
pleased to think she performed this duty with rigour. She immediately
came in, smoothing down her frock, and did the honours of her father's
house with a wide-eyed earnestness of courtesy. Isabel sat there half an
hour, and Pansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in the
pantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wire--not chattering, but
conversing, and showing the same respectful interest in Isabel's affairs
that Isabel was so good as to take in hers. Isabel wondered at her;
she had never had so directly presented to her nose the white flower
of cultivated sweetness. How well the child had been taught, said our
admiring young woman; how prettily she had been directed and fashioned;
and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! Isabel
was fond, ever, of the question of character and quality, of sounding,
as who should say, the deep personal mystery, and it had pleased her,
up to this time, to be in doubt as to whether this tender slip were not
really all-knowing. Was the extremity of her candour but the perfection
of self-consciousness? Was it put on to please her father's visitor,
or was it the direct expression of an unspotted nature? The hour that
Isabel spent in Mr. Osmond's beautiful empty, dusky rooms--the windows
had been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and here and there,
through an easy crevice, the splendid summer day peeped in, lighting a
gleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt in the rich gloom--her interview
with the daughter of the house, I say, effectually settled this
question. Pansy was really a blank page, a pure white surface,
successfully kept so; she had neither art, nor guile, nor temper, nor
talent--only two or three small exquisite instincts: for knowing a
friend, for avoiding a mistake, for taking care of an old toy or a new
frock. Yet to be so tender was to be touching withal, and she could
be felt as an easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to
resist, no sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified,
easily crushed: her force would be all in knowing when and where to
cling. She moved about the place with her visitor, who had asked leave
to walk through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgement on
several works of art. She spoke of her prospects, her occupations, her
father's intentions; she was not egotistical, but felt the propriety
of supplying the information so distinguished a guest would naturally
expect.
"Please tell me," she said, "did papa, in Rome, go to see Madame
Catherine? He told me he would if he had time. Perhaps he had not time.
Papa likes a great deal of time. He wished to speak about my education;
it isn't finished yet, you know. I don't know what they can do with me
more; but it appears it's far from finished. Papa told me one day he
thought he would finish it himself; for the last year or two, at the
convent, the masters that teach the tall girls are so very dear. Papa's
not rich, and I should be very sorry if he were to pay much money for
me, because I don't think I'm worth it. I don't learn quickly enough,
and I have no memory. For what I'm told, yes--especially when it's
pleasant; but not for what I learn in a book. There was a young girl who
was my best friend, and they took her away from the convent, when she
was fourteen, to make--how do you say it in English?--to make a dot. You
don't say it in English? I hope it isn't wrong; I only mean they wished
to keep the money to marry her. I don't know whether it is for that that
papa wishes to keep the money--to marry me. It costs so much to marry!"
Pansy went on with a sigh; "I think papa might make that economy. At
any rate I'm too young to think about it yet, and I don't care for any
gentleman; I mean for any but him. If he were not my papa I should like
to marry him; I would rather be his daughter than the wife of--of some
strange person. I miss him very much, but not so much as you might
think, for I've been so much away from him. Papa has always been
principally for holidays. I miss Madame Catherine almost more; but you
must not tell him that. You shall not see him again? I'm very sorry,
and he'll be sorry too. Of everyone who comes here I like you the best.
That's not a great compliment, for there are not many people. It was
very kind of you to come to-day--so far from your house; for I'm really
as yet only a child. Oh, yes, I've only the occupations of a child. When
did YOU give them up, the occupations of a child? I should like to know
how old you are, but I don't know whether it's right to ask. At the
convent they told us that we must never ask the age. I don't like to do
anything that's not expected; it looks as if one had not been properly
taught. I myself--I should never like to be taken by surprise. Papa left
directions for everything. I go to bed very early. When the sun goes off
that side I go into the garden. Papa left strict orders that I was not
to get scorched. I always enjoy the view; the mountains are so graceful.
In Rome, from the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. I
practise three hours. I don't play very well. You play yourself? I wish
very much you'd play something for me; papa has the idea that I should
hear good music. Madame Merle has played for me several times; that's
what I like best about Madame Merle; she has great facility. I shall
never have facility. And I've no voice--just a small sound like the
squeak of a slate-pencil making flourishes."
Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat down
to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her white
hands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped she kissed the child
good-bye, held her close, looked at her long. "Be very good," she said;
"give pleasure to your father."
"I think that's what I live for," Pansy answered. "He has not much
pleasure; he's rather a sad man."
Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she felt it
almost a torment to be obliged to conceal. It was her pride that obliged
her, and a certain sense of decency; there were still other things in
her head which she felt a strong impulse, instantly checked, to say
to Pansy about her father; there were things it would have given her
pleasure to hear the child, to make the child, say. But she no sooner
became conscious of these things than her imagination was hushed with
horror at the idea of taking advantage of the little girl--it was of
this she would have accused herself--and of exhaling into that air where
he might still have a subtle sense for it any breath of her charmed
state. She had come--she had come; but she had stayed only an hour. She
rose quickly from the music-stool; even then, however, she lingered a
moment, still holding her small companion, drawing the child's sweet
slimness closer and looking down at her almost in envy. She was obliged
to confess it to herself--she would have taken a passionate pleasure in
talking of Gilbert Osmond to this innocent, diminutive creature who
was so near him. But she said no other word; she only kissed Pansy once
again. They went together through the vestibule, to the door that
opened on the court; and there her young hostess stopped, looking rather
wistfully beyond. "I may go no further. I've promised papa not to pass
this door."
"You're right to obey him; he'll never ask you anything unreasonable."
"I shall always obey him. But when will you come again?"
"Not for a long time, I'm afraid."
"As soon as you can, I hope. I'm only a little girl," said Pansy, "but
I shall always expect you." And the small figure stood in the high, dark
doorway, watching Isabel cross the clear, grey court and disappear into
the brightness beyond the big portone, which gave a wider dazzle as it
opened.
| In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not "to signify." This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning. | analysis |
Isabel came back to Florence, but only after several months; an interval
sufficiently replete with incident. It is not, however, during this
interval that we are closely concerned with her; our attention is
engaged again on a certain day in the late spring-time, shortly after
her return to Palazzo Crescentini and a year from the date of the
incidents just narrated. She was alone on this occasion, in one of the
smaller of the numerous rooms devoted by Mrs. Touchett to social uses,
and there was that in her expression and attitude which would have
suggested that she was expecting a visitor. The tall window was open,
and though its green shutters were partly drawn the bright air of the
garden had come in through a broad interstice and filled the room with
warmth and perfume. Our young woman stood near it for some time, her
hands clasped behind her; she gazed abroad with the vagueness of unrest.
Too troubled for attention she moved in a vain circle. Yet it could not
be in her thought to catch a glimpse of her visitor before he should
pass into the house, since the entrance to the palace was not through
the garden, in which stillness and privacy always reigned. She wished
rather to forestall his arrival by a process of conjecture, and to judge
by the expression of her face this attempt gave her plenty to do. Grave
she found herself, and positively more weighted, as by the experience of
the lapse of the year she had spent in seeing the world. She had ranged,
she would have said, through space and surveyed much of mankind, and
was therefore now, in her own eyes, a very different person from the
frivolous young woman from Albany who had begun to take the measure
of Europe on the lawn at Gardencourt a couple of years before. She
flattered herself she had harvested wisdom and learned a great deal
more of life than this light-minded creature had even suspected. If
her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead
of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have
evoked a multitude of interesting pictures. These pictures would have
been both landscapes and figure-pieces; the latter, however, would have
been the more numerous. With several of the images that might have been
projected on such a field we are already acquainted. There would be for
instance the conciliatory Lily, our heroine's sister and Edmund Ludlow's
wife, who had come out from New York to spend five months with her
relative. She had left her husband behind her, but had brought
her children, to whom Isabel now played with equal munificence and
tenderness the part of maiden-aunt. Mr. Ludlow, toward the last, had
been able to snatch a few weeks from his forensic triumphs and, crossing
the ocean with extreme rapidity, had spent a month with the two ladies
in Paris before taking his wife home. The little Ludlows had not yet,
even from the American point of view, reached the proper tourist-age; so
that while her sister was with her Isabel had confined her movements to
a narrow circle. Lily and the babies had joined her in Switzerland in
the month of July, and they had spent a summer of fine weather in an
Alpine valley where the flowers were thick in the meadows and the shade
of great chestnuts made a resting-place for such upward wanderings as
might be undertaken by ladies and children on warm afternoons. They had
afterwards reached the French capital, which was worshipped, and with
costly ceremonies, by Lily, but thought of as noisily vacant by Isabel,
who in these days made use of her memory of Rome as she might have done,
in a hot and crowded room, of a phial of something pungent hidden in her
handkerchief.
Mrs. Ludlow sacrificed, as I say, to Paris, yet had doubts and
wonderments not allayed at that altar; and after her husband had joined
her found further chagrin in his failure to throw himself into these
speculations. They all had Isabel for subject; but Edmund Ludlow, as
he had always done before, declined to be surprised, or distressed, or
mystified, or elated, at anything his sister-in-law might have done
or have failed to do. Mrs. Ludlow's mental motions were sufficiently
various. At one moment she thought it would be so natural for that young
woman to come home and take a house in New York--the Rossiters', for
instance, which had an elegant conservatory and was just round the
corner from her own; at another she couldn't conceal her surprise at the
girl's not marrying some member of one of the great aristocracies. On
the whole, as I have said, she had fallen from high communion with the
probabilities. She had taken more satisfaction in Isabel's accession of
fortune than if the money had been left to herself; it had seemed to her
to offer just the proper setting for her sister's slightly meagre, but
scarce the less eminent figure. Isabel had developed less, however, than
Lily had thought likely--development, to Lily's understanding, being
somehow mysteriously connected with morning-calls and evening-parties.
Intellectually, doubtless, she had made immense strides; but she
appeared to have achieved few of those social conquests of which Mrs.
Ludlow had expected to admire the trophies. Lily's conception of such
achievements was extremely vague; but this was exactly what she had
expected of Isabel--to give it form and body. Isabel could have done
as well as she had done in New York; and Mrs. Ludlow appealed to her
husband to know whether there was any privilege she enjoyed in Europe
which the society of that city might not offer her. We know ourselves
that Isabel had made conquests--whether inferior or not to those she
might have effected in her native land it would be a delicate matter to
decide; and it is not altogether with a feeling of complacency that
I again mention that she had not rendered these honourable victories
public. She had not told her sister the history of Lord Warburton, nor
had she given her a hint of Mr. Osmond's state of mind; and she had had
no better reason for her silence than that she didn't wish to speak.
It was more romantic to say nothing, and, drinking deep, in secret, of
romance, she was as little disposed to ask poor Lily's advice as she
would have been to close that rare volume forever. But Lily knew nothing
of these discriminations, and could only pronounce her sister's career
a strange anti-climax--an impression confirmed by the fact that Isabel's
silence about Mr. Osmond, for instance, was in direct proportion to the
frequency with which he occupied her thoughts. As this happened very
often it sometimes appeared to Mrs. Ludlow that she had lost her
courage. So uncanny a result of so exhilarating an incident as
inheriting a fortune was of course perplexing to the cheerful Lily; it
added to her general sense that Isabel was not at all like other people.
Our young lady's courage, however, might have been taken as reaching
its height after her relations had gone home. She could imagine braver
things than spending the winter in Paris--Paris had sides by which it
so resembled New York, Paris was like smart, neat prose--and her close
correspondence with Madame Merle did much to stimulate such flights. She
had never had a keener sense of freedom, of the absolute boldness and
wantonness of liberty, than when she turned away from the platform
at the Euston Station on one of the last days of November, after the
departure of the train that was to convey poor Lily, her husband and her
children to their ship at Liverpool. It had been good for her to regale;
she was very conscious of that; she was very observant, as we know, of
what was good for her, and her effort was constantly to find something
that was good enough. To profit by the present advantage till the latest
moment she had made the journey from Paris with the unenvied travellers.
She would have accompanied them to Liverpool as well, only Edmund Ludlow
had asked her, as a favour, not to do so; it made Lily so fidgety and
she asked such impossible questions. Isabel watched the train move away;
she kissed her hand to the elder of her small nephews, a demonstrative
child who leaned dangerously far out of the window of the carriage and
made separation an occasion of violent hilarity, and then she walked
back into the foggy London street. The world lay before her--she could
do whatever she chose. There was a deep thrill in it all, but for the
present her choice was tolerably discreet; she chose simply to walk back
from Euston Square to her hotel. The early dusk of a November afternoon
had already closed in; the street-lamps, in the thick, brown air, looked
weak and red; our heroine was unattended and Euston Square was a long
way from Piccadilly. But Isabel performed the journey with a positive
enjoyment of its dangers and lost her way almost on purpose, in order
to get more sensations, so that she was disappointed when an obliging
policeman easily set her right again. She was so fond of the spectacle
of human life that she enjoyed even the aspect of gathering dusk in the
London streets--the moving crowds, the hurrying cabs, the lighted shops,
the flaring stalls, the dark, shining dampness of everything. That
evening, at her hotel, she wrote to Madame Merle that she should start
in a day or two for Rome. She made her way down to Rome without touching
at Florence--having gone first to Venice and then proceeded southward by
Ancona. She accomplished this journey without other assistance than that
of her servant, for her natural protectors were not now on the ground.
Ralph Touchett was spending the winter at Corfu, and Miss Stackpole, in
the September previous, had been recalled to America by a telegram from
the Interviewer. This journal offered its brilliant correspondent a
fresher field for her genius than the mouldering cities of Europe, and
Henrietta was cheered on her way by a promise from Mr. Bantling that
he would soon come over to see her. Isabel wrote to Mrs. Touchett to
apologise for not presenting herself just yet in Florence, and her aunt
replied characteristically enough. Apologies, Mrs. Touchett intimated,
were of no more use to her than bubbles, and she herself never dealt
in such articles. One either did the thing or one didn't, and what one
"would" have done belonged to the sphere of the irrelevant, like the
idea of a future life or of the origin of things. Her letter was frank,
but (a rare case with Mrs. Touchett) not so frank as it pretended. She
easily forgave her niece for not stopping at Florence, because she
took it for a sign that Gilbert Osmond was less in question there than
formerly. She watched of course to see if he would now find a pretext
for going to Rome, and derived some comfort from learning that he had
not been guilty of an absence. Isabel, on her side, had not been a
fortnight in Rome before she proposed to Madame Merle that they should
make a little pilgrimage to the East. Madame Merle remarked that her
friend was restless, but she added that she herself had always been
consumed with the desire to visit Athens and Constantinople. The two
ladies accordingly embarked on this expedition, and spent three months
in Greece, in Turkey, in Egypt. Isabel found much to interest her in
these countries, though Madame Merle continued to remark that even among
the most classic sites, the scenes most calculated to suggest repose
and reflexion, a certain incoherence prevailed in her. Isabel travelled
rapidly and recklessly; she was like a thirsty person draining cup
after cup. Madame Merle meanwhile, as lady-in-waiting to a princess
circulating incognita, panted a little in her rear. It was on Isabel's
invitation she had come, and she imparted all due dignity to the girl's
uncountenanced state. She played her part with the tact that might have
been expected of her, effacing herself and accepting the position of a
companion whose expenses were profusely paid. The situation, however,
had no hardships, and people who met this reserved though striking
pair on their travels would not have been able to tell you which
was patroness and which client. To say that Madame Merle improved on
acquaintance states meagrely the impression she made on her friend,
who had found her from the first so ample and so easy. At the end of an
intimacy of three months Isabel felt she knew her better; her character
had revealed itself, and the admirable woman had also at last redeemed
her promise of relating her history from her own point of view--a
consummation the more desirable as Isabel had already heard it related
from the point of view of others. This history was so sad a one (in so
far as it concerned the late M. Merle, a positive adventurer, she might
say, though originally so plausible, who had taken advantage, years
before, of her youth and of an inexperience in which doubtless those who
knew her only now would find it difficult to believe); it abounded so in
startling and lamentable incidents that her companion wondered a person
so eprouvee could have kept so much of her freshness, her interest in
life. Into this freshness of Madame Merle's she obtained a considerable
insight; she seemed to see it as professional, as slightly mechanical,
carried about in its case like the fiddle of the virtuoso, or blanketed
and bridled like the "favourite" of the jockey. She liked her as much
as ever, but there was a corner of the curtain that never was lifted;
it was as if she had remained after all something of a public performer,
condemned to emerge only in character and in costume. She had once
said that she came from a distance, that she belonged to the "old, old"
world, and Isabel never lost the impression that she was the product of
a different moral or social clime from her own, that she had grown up
under other stars.
She believed then that at bottom she had a different morality. Of course
the morality of civilised persons has always much in common; but our
young woman had a sense in her of values gone wrong or, as they said at
the shops, marked down. She considered, with the presumption of youth,
that a morality differing from her own must be inferior to it; and this
conviction was an aid to detecting an occasional flash of cruelty, an
occasional lapse from candour, in the conversation of a person who had
raised delicate kindness to an art and whose pride was too high for
the narrow ways of deception. Her conception of human motives might,
in certain lights, have been acquired at the court of some kingdom in
decadence, and there were several in her list of which our heroine had
not even heard. She had not heard of everything, that was very plain;
and there were evidently things in the world of which it was not
advantageous to hear. She had once or twice had a positive scare; since
it so affected her to have to exclaim, of her friend, "Heaven forgive
her, she doesn't understand me!" Absurd as it may seem this discovery
operated as a shock, left her with a vague dismay in which there was
even an element of foreboding. The dismay of course subsided, in the
light of some sudden proof of Madame Merle's remarkable intelligence;
but it stood for a high-water-mark in the ebb and flow of confidence.
Madame Merle had once declared her belief that when a friendship ceases
to grow it immediately begins to decline--there being no point of
equilibrium between liking more and liking less. A stationary affection,
in other words, was impossible--it must move one way or the other.
However that might be, the girl had in these days a thousand uses for
her sense of the romantic, which was more active than it had ever been.
I do not allude to the impulse it received as she gazed at the Pyramids
in the course of an excursion from Cairo, or as she stood among the
broken columns of the Acropolis and fixed her eyes upon the point
designated to her as the Strait of Salamis; deep and memorable as these
emotions had remained. She came back by the last of March from Egypt
and Greece and made another stay in Rome. A few days after her arrival
Gilbert Osmond descended from Florence and remained three weeks, during
which the fact of her being with his old friend Madame Merle, in whose
house she had gone to lodge, made it virtually inevitable that he
should see her every day. When the last of April came she wrote to Mrs.
Touchett that she should now rejoice to accept an invitation given long
before, and went to pay a visit at Palazzo Crescentini, Madame Merle on
this occasion remaining in Rome. She found her aunt alone; her cousin
was still at Corfu. Ralph, however, was expected in Florence from day
to day, and Isabel, who had not seen him for upwards of a year, was
prepared to give him the most affectionate welcome.
| The chapter opens with Isabel sitting at a window of Mrs. Touchett's Palazzo Crescentini, waiting for someone. A year has passed since she had left Florence: during this time, her sister and her sister's husband, the Ludlows, have visited her and toured Switzerland, Paris, and London with her. When they left, she felt free to act: she goes on a trip to the East with Madame Merle. She visits Turkey, Greece, and Egypt. Then she returns to Rome, and Gilbert Osmond comes down to visit her for a few weeks. The narrator has described all of this in the course of a few pages, all as background to the scene in which Isabel is waiting for a mysterious someone to arrive | summary |
Isabel came back to Florence, but only after several months; an interval
sufficiently replete with incident. It is not, however, during this
interval that we are closely concerned with her; our attention is
engaged again on a certain day in the late spring-time, shortly after
her return to Palazzo Crescentini and a year from the date of the
incidents just narrated. She was alone on this occasion, in one of the
smaller of the numerous rooms devoted by Mrs. Touchett to social uses,
and there was that in her expression and attitude which would have
suggested that she was expecting a visitor. The tall window was open,
and though its green shutters were partly drawn the bright air of the
garden had come in through a broad interstice and filled the room with
warmth and perfume. Our young woman stood near it for some time, her
hands clasped behind her; she gazed abroad with the vagueness of unrest.
Too troubled for attention she moved in a vain circle. Yet it could not
be in her thought to catch a glimpse of her visitor before he should
pass into the house, since the entrance to the palace was not through
the garden, in which stillness and privacy always reigned. She wished
rather to forestall his arrival by a process of conjecture, and to judge
by the expression of her face this attempt gave her plenty to do. Grave
she found herself, and positively more weighted, as by the experience of
the lapse of the year she had spent in seeing the world. She had ranged,
she would have said, through space and surveyed much of mankind, and
was therefore now, in her own eyes, a very different person from the
frivolous young woman from Albany who had begun to take the measure
of Europe on the lawn at Gardencourt a couple of years before. She
flattered herself she had harvested wisdom and learned a great deal
more of life than this light-minded creature had even suspected. If
her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead
of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have
evoked a multitude of interesting pictures. These pictures would have
been both landscapes and figure-pieces; the latter, however, would have
been the more numerous. With several of the images that might have been
projected on such a field we are already acquainted. There would be for
instance the conciliatory Lily, our heroine's sister and Edmund Ludlow's
wife, who had come out from New York to spend five months with her
relative. She had left her husband behind her, but had brought
her children, to whom Isabel now played with equal munificence and
tenderness the part of maiden-aunt. Mr. Ludlow, toward the last, had
been able to snatch a few weeks from his forensic triumphs and, crossing
the ocean with extreme rapidity, had spent a month with the two ladies
in Paris before taking his wife home. The little Ludlows had not yet,
even from the American point of view, reached the proper tourist-age; so
that while her sister was with her Isabel had confined her movements to
a narrow circle. Lily and the babies had joined her in Switzerland in
the month of July, and they had spent a summer of fine weather in an
Alpine valley where the flowers were thick in the meadows and the shade
of great chestnuts made a resting-place for such upward wanderings as
might be undertaken by ladies and children on warm afternoons. They had
afterwards reached the French capital, which was worshipped, and with
costly ceremonies, by Lily, but thought of as noisily vacant by Isabel,
who in these days made use of her memory of Rome as she might have done,
in a hot and crowded room, of a phial of something pungent hidden in her
handkerchief.
Mrs. Ludlow sacrificed, as I say, to Paris, yet had doubts and
wonderments not allayed at that altar; and after her husband had joined
her found further chagrin in his failure to throw himself into these
speculations. They all had Isabel for subject; but Edmund Ludlow, as
he had always done before, declined to be surprised, or distressed, or
mystified, or elated, at anything his sister-in-law might have done
or have failed to do. Mrs. Ludlow's mental motions were sufficiently
various. At one moment she thought it would be so natural for that young
woman to come home and take a house in New York--the Rossiters', for
instance, which had an elegant conservatory and was just round the
corner from her own; at another she couldn't conceal her surprise at the
girl's not marrying some member of one of the great aristocracies. On
the whole, as I have said, she had fallen from high communion with the
probabilities. She had taken more satisfaction in Isabel's accession of
fortune than if the money had been left to herself; it had seemed to her
to offer just the proper setting for her sister's slightly meagre, but
scarce the less eminent figure. Isabel had developed less, however, than
Lily had thought likely--development, to Lily's understanding, being
somehow mysteriously connected with morning-calls and evening-parties.
Intellectually, doubtless, she had made immense strides; but she
appeared to have achieved few of those social conquests of which Mrs.
Ludlow had expected to admire the trophies. Lily's conception of such
achievements was extremely vague; but this was exactly what she had
expected of Isabel--to give it form and body. Isabel could have done
as well as she had done in New York; and Mrs. Ludlow appealed to her
husband to know whether there was any privilege she enjoyed in Europe
which the society of that city might not offer her. We know ourselves
that Isabel had made conquests--whether inferior or not to those she
might have effected in her native land it would be a delicate matter to
decide; and it is not altogether with a feeling of complacency that
I again mention that she had not rendered these honourable victories
public. She had not told her sister the history of Lord Warburton, nor
had she given her a hint of Mr. Osmond's state of mind; and she had had
no better reason for her silence than that she didn't wish to speak.
It was more romantic to say nothing, and, drinking deep, in secret, of
romance, she was as little disposed to ask poor Lily's advice as she
would have been to close that rare volume forever. But Lily knew nothing
of these discriminations, and could only pronounce her sister's career
a strange anti-climax--an impression confirmed by the fact that Isabel's
silence about Mr. Osmond, for instance, was in direct proportion to the
frequency with which he occupied her thoughts. As this happened very
often it sometimes appeared to Mrs. Ludlow that she had lost her
courage. So uncanny a result of so exhilarating an incident as
inheriting a fortune was of course perplexing to the cheerful Lily; it
added to her general sense that Isabel was not at all like other people.
Our young lady's courage, however, might have been taken as reaching
its height after her relations had gone home. She could imagine braver
things than spending the winter in Paris--Paris had sides by which it
so resembled New York, Paris was like smart, neat prose--and her close
correspondence with Madame Merle did much to stimulate such flights. She
had never had a keener sense of freedom, of the absolute boldness and
wantonness of liberty, than when she turned away from the platform
at the Euston Station on one of the last days of November, after the
departure of the train that was to convey poor Lily, her husband and her
children to their ship at Liverpool. It had been good for her to regale;
she was very conscious of that; she was very observant, as we know, of
what was good for her, and her effort was constantly to find something
that was good enough. To profit by the present advantage till the latest
moment she had made the journey from Paris with the unenvied travellers.
She would have accompanied them to Liverpool as well, only Edmund Ludlow
had asked her, as a favour, not to do so; it made Lily so fidgety and
she asked such impossible questions. Isabel watched the train move away;
she kissed her hand to the elder of her small nephews, a demonstrative
child who leaned dangerously far out of the window of the carriage and
made separation an occasion of violent hilarity, and then she walked
back into the foggy London street. The world lay before her--she could
do whatever she chose. There was a deep thrill in it all, but for the
present her choice was tolerably discreet; she chose simply to walk back
from Euston Square to her hotel. The early dusk of a November afternoon
had already closed in; the street-lamps, in the thick, brown air, looked
weak and red; our heroine was unattended and Euston Square was a long
way from Piccadilly. But Isabel performed the journey with a positive
enjoyment of its dangers and lost her way almost on purpose, in order
to get more sensations, so that she was disappointed when an obliging
policeman easily set her right again. She was so fond of the spectacle
of human life that she enjoyed even the aspect of gathering dusk in the
London streets--the moving crowds, the hurrying cabs, the lighted shops,
the flaring stalls, the dark, shining dampness of everything. That
evening, at her hotel, she wrote to Madame Merle that she should start
in a day or two for Rome. She made her way down to Rome without touching
at Florence--having gone first to Venice and then proceeded southward by
Ancona. She accomplished this journey without other assistance than that
of her servant, for her natural protectors were not now on the ground.
Ralph Touchett was spending the winter at Corfu, and Miss Stackpole, in
the September previous, had been recalled to America by a telegram from
the Interviewer. This journal offered its brilliant correspondent a
fresher field for her genius than the mouldering cities of Europe, and
Henrietta was cheered on her way by a promise from Mr. Bantling that
he would soon come over to see her. Isabel wrote to Mrs. Touchett to
apologise for not presenting herself just yet in Florence, and her aunt
replied characteristically enough. Apologies, Mrs. Touchett intimated,
were of no more use to her than bubbles, and she herself never dealt
in such articles. One either did the thing or one didn't, and what one
"would" have done belonged to the sphere of the irrelevant, like the
idea of a future life or of the origin of things. Her letter was frank,
but (a rare case with Mrs. Touchett) not so frank as it pretended. She
easily forgave her niece for not stopping at Florence, because she
took it for a sign that Gilbert Osmond was less in question there than
formerly. She watched of course to see if he would now find a pretext
for going to Rome, and derived some comfort from learning that he had
not been guilty of an absence. Isabel, on her side, had not been a
fortnight in Rome before she proposed to Madame Merle that they should
make a little pilgrimage to the East. Madame Merle remarked that her
friend was restless, but she added that she herself had always been
consumed with the desire to visit Athens and Constantinople. The two
ladies accordingly embarked on this expedition, and spent three months
in Greece, in Turkey, in Egypt. Isabel found much to interest her in
these countries, though Madame Merle continued to remark that even among
the most classic sites, the scenes most calculated to suggest repose
and reflexion, a certain incoherence prevailed in her. Isabel travelled
rapidly and recklessly; she was like a thirsty person draining cup
after cup. Madame Merle meanwhile, as lady-in-waiting to a princess
circulating incognita, panted a little in her rear. It was on Isabel's
invitation she had come, and she imparted all due dignity to the girl's
uncountenanced state. She played her part with the tact that might have
been expected of her, effacing herself and accepting the position of a
companion whose expenses were profusely paid. The situation, however,
had no hardships, and people who met this reserved though striking
pair on their travels would not have been able to tell you which
was patroness and which client. To say that Madame Merle improved on
acquaintance states meagrely the impression she made on her friend,
who had found her from the first so ample and so easy. At the end of an
intimacy of three months Isabel felt she knew her better; her character
had revealed itself, and the admirable woman had also at last redeemed
her promise of relating her history from her own point of view--a
consummation the more desirable as Isabel had already heard it related
from the point of view of others. This history was so sad a one (in so
far as it concerned the late M. Merle, a positive adventurer, she might
say, though originally so plausible, who had taken advantage, years
before, of her youth and of an inexperience in which doubtless those who
knew her only now would find it difficult to believe); it abounded so in
startling and lamentable incidents that her companion wondered a person
so eprouvee could have kept so much of her freshness, her interest in
life. Into this freshness of Madame Merle's she obtained a considerable
insight; she seemed to see it as professional, as slightly mechanical,
carried about in its case like the fiddle of the virtuoso, or blanketed
and bridled like the "favourite" of the jockey. She liked her as much
as ever, but there was a corner of the curtain that never was lifted;
it was as if she had remained after all something of a public performer,
condemned to emerge only in character and in costume. She had once
said that she came from a distance, that she belonged to the "old, old"
world, and Isabel never lost the impression that she was the product of
a different moral or social clime from her own, that she had grown up
under other stars.
She believed then that at bottom she had a different morality. Of course
the morality of civilised persons has always much in common; but our
young woman had a sense in her of values gone wrong or, as they said at
the shops, marked down. She considered, with the presumption of youth,
that a morality differing from her own must be inferior to it; and this
conviction was an aid to detecting an occasional flash of cruelty, an
occasional lapse from candour, in the conversation of a person who had
raised delicate kindness to an art and whose pride was too high for
the narrow ways of deception. Her conception of human motives might,
in certain lights, have been acquired at the court of some kingdom in
decadence, and there were several in her list of which our heroine had
not even heard. She had not heard of everything, that was very plain;
and there were evidently things in the world of which it was not
advantageous to hear. She had once or twice had a positive scare; since
it so affected her to have to exclaim, of her friend, "Heaven forgive
her, she doesn't understand me!" Absurd as it may seem this discovery
operated as a shock, left her with a vague dismay in which there was
even an element of foreboding. The dismay of course subsided, in the
light of some sudden proof of Madame Merle's remarkable intelligence;
but it stood for a high-water-mark in the ebb and flow of confidence.
Madame Merle had once declared her belief that when a friendship ceases
to grow it immediately begins to decline--there being no point of
equilibrium between liking more and liking less. A stationary affection,
in other words, was impossible--it must move one way or the other.
However that might be, the girl had in these days a thousand uses for
her sense of the romantic, which was more active than it had ever been.
I do not allude to the impulse it received as she gazed at the Pyramids
in the course of an excursion from Cairo, or as she stood among the
broken columns of the Acropolis and fixed her eyes upon the point
designated to her as the Strait of Salamis; deep and memorable as these
emotions had remained. She came back by the last of March from Egypt
and Greece and made another stay in Rome. A few days after her arrival
Gilbert Osmond descended from Florence and remained three weeks, during
which the fact of her being with his old friend Madame Merle, in whose
house she had gone to lodge, made it virtually inevitable that he
should see her every day. When the last of April came she wrote to Mrs.
Touchett that she should now rejoice to accept an invitation given long
before, and went to pay a visit at Palazzo Crescentini, Madame Merle on
this occasion remaining in Rome. She found her aunt alone; her cousin
was still at Corfu. Ralph, however, was expected in Florence from day
to day, and Isabel, who had not seen him for upwards of a year, was
prepared to give him the most affectionate welcome.
| . It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. "If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures," the narrator tells us. This again is called "hypothetical discourse" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. "His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her," the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great "idea" she would actualize in the world only in the "negative" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel "served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself." Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a "silver plate." Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself. | analysis |
It was not of him, nevertheless, that she was thinking while she stood
at the window near which we found her a while ago, and it was not of any
of the matters I have rapidly sketched. She was not turned to the past,
but to the immediate, impending hour. She had reason to expect a scene,
and she was not fond of scenes. She was not asking herself what she
should say to her visitor; this question had already been answered. What
he would say to her--that was the interesting issue. It could be nothing
in the least soothing--she had warrant for this, and the conviction
doubtless showed in the cloud on her brow. For the rest, however, all
clearness reigned in her; she had put away her mourning and she walked
in no small shimmering splendour. She only, felt older--ever so much,
and as if she were "worth more" for it, like some curious piece in an
antiquary's collection. She was not at any rate left indefinitely to her
apprehensions, for a servant at last stood before her with a card on his
tray. "Let the gentleman come in," she said, and continued to gaze out
of the window after the footman had retired. It was only when she had
heard the door close behind the person who presently entered that she
looked round.
Caspar Goodwood stood there--stood and received a moment, from head to
foot, the bright, dry gaze with which she rather withheld than offered
a greeting. Whether his sense of maturity had kept pace with Isabel's
we shall perhaps presently ascertain; let me say meanwhile that to
her critical glance he showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight,
strong and hard, there was nothing in his appearance that spoke
positively either of youth or of age; if he had neither innocence nor
weakness, so he had no practical philosophy. His jaw showed the same
voluntary cast as in earlier days; but a crisis like the present had in
it of course something grim. He had the air of a man who had travelled
hard; he said nothing at first, as if he had been out of breath. This
gave Isabel time to make a reflexion: "Poor fellow, what great things
he's capable of, and what a pity he should waste so dreadfully his
splendid force! What a pity too that one can't satisfy everybody!" It
gave her time to do more to say at the end of a minute: "I can't tell
you how I hoped you wouldn't come!"
"I've no doubt of that." And he looked about him for a seat. Not only
had he come, but he meant to settle.
"You must be very tired," said Isabel, seating herself, and generously,
as she thought, to give him his opportunity.
"No, I'm not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired?"
"Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?"
"Last night, very late; in a kind of snail-train they call the express.
These Italian trains go at about the rate of an American funeral."
"That's in keeping--you must have felt as if you were coming to bury
me!" And she forced a smile of encouragement to an easy view of their
situation. She had reasoned the matter well out, making it perfectly
clear that she broke no faith and falsified no contract; but for all
this she was afraid of her visitor. She was ashamed of her fear; but she
was devoutly thankful there was nothing else to be ashamed of. He looked
at her with his stiff insistence, an insistence in which there was such
a want of tact; especially when the dull dark beam in his eye rested on
her as a physical weight.
"No, I didn't feel that; I couldn't think of you as dead. I wish I
could!" he candidly declared.
"I thank you immensely."
"I'd rather think of you as dead than as married to another man."
"That's very selfish of you!" she returned with the ardour of a real
conviction. "If you're not happy yourself others have yet a right to
be."
"Very likely it's selfish; but I don't in the least mind your saying so.
I don't mind anything you can say now--I don't feel it. The cruellest
things you could think of would be mere pin-pricks. After what you've
done I shall never feel anything--I mean anything but that. That I shall
feel all my life."
Mr. Goodwood made these detached assertions with dry deliberateness,
in his hard, slow American tone, which flung no atmospheric colour over
propositions intrinsically crude. The tone made Isabel angry rather than
touched her; but her anger perhaps was fortunate, inasmuch as it gave
her a further reason for controlling herself. It was under the pressure
of this control that she became, after a little, irrelevant. "When did
you leave New York?"
He threw up his head as if calculating. "Seventeen days ago."
"You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains."
"I came as fast as I could. I'd have come five days ago if I had been
able."
"It wouldn't have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood," she coldly smiled.
"Not to you--no. But to me."
"You gain nothing that I see."
"That's for me to judge!"
"Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself." And then, to
change the subject, she asked him if he had seen Henrietta Stackpole.
He looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence to talk of
Henrietta Stackpole; but he answered, distinctly enough, that this young
lady had been with him just before he left America. "She came to see
you?" Isabel then demanded.
"Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day I
had got your letter."
"Did you tell her?" Isabel asked with a certain anxiety.
"Oh no," said Caspar Goodwood simply; "I didn't want to do that. She'll
hear it quick enough; she hears everything."
"I shall write to her, and then she'll write to me and scold me," Isabel
declared, trying to smile again.
Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. "I guess she'll come right
out," he said.
"On purpose to scold me?"
"I don't know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe thoroughly."
"I'm glad you tell me that," Isabel said. "I must prepare for her."
Mr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor; then at last,
raising them, "Does she know Mr. Osmond?" he enquired.
"A little. And she doesn't like him. But of course I don't marry to
please Henrietta," she added. It would have been better for poor Caspar
if she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he didn't
say so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place. To
which she made answer that she didn't know yet. "I can only say it will
be soon. I've told no one but yourself and one other person--an old
friend of Mr. Osmond's."
"Is it a marriage your friends won't like?" he demanded.
"I really haven't an idea. As I say, I don't marry for my friends."
He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking questions,
doing it quite without delicacy. "Who and what then is Mr. Gilbert
Osmond?"
"Who and what? Nobody and nothing but a very good and very honourable
man. He's not in business," said Isabel. "He's not rich; he's not known
for anything in particular."
She disliked Mr. Goodwood's questions, but she said to herself that she
owed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible. The satisfaction poor
Caspar exhibited was, however, small; he sat very upright, gazing at
her. "Where does he come from? Where does he belong?"
She had never been so little pleased with the way he said "belawng." "He
comes from nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy."
"You said in your letter he was American. Hasn't he a native place?"
"Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy."
"Has he never gone back?"
"Why should he go back?" Isabel asked, flushing all defensively. "He has
no profession."
"He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like the United
States?"
"He doesn't know them. Then he's very quiet and very simple--he contents
himself with Italy."
"With Italy and with you," said Mr. Goodwood with gloomy plainness and
no appearance of trying to make an epigram. "What has he ever done?" he
added abruptly.
"That I should marry him? Nothing at all," Isabel replied while her
patience helped itself by turning a little to hardness. "If he had done
great things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood;
I'm marrying a perfect nonentity. Don't try to take an interest in him.
You can't."
"I can't appreciate him; that's what you mean. And you don't mean in
the least that he's a perfect nonentity. You think he's grand, you think
he's great, though no one else thinks so."
Isabel's colour deepened; she felt this really acute of her companion,
and it was certainly a proof of the aid that passion might render
perceptions she had never taken for fine. "Why do you always come back
to what others think? I can't discuss Mr. Osmond with you."
"Of course not," said Caspar reasonably. And he sat there with his air
of stiff helplessness, as if not only this were true, but there were
nothing else that they might discuss.
"You see how little you gain," she accordingly broke out--"how little
comfort or satisfaction I can give you."
"I didn't expect you to give me much."
"I don't understand then why you came."
"I came because I wanted to see you once more--even just as you are."
"I appreciate that; but if you had waited a while, sooner or later
we should have been sure to meet, and our meeting would have been
pleasanter for each of us than this."
"Waited till after you're married? That's just what I didn't want to do.
You'll be different then."
"Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You'll see."
"That will make it all the worse," said Mr. Goodwood grimly.
"Ah, you're unaccommodating! I can't promise to dislike you in order to
help you to resign yourself."
"I shouldn't care if you did!"
Isabel got up with a movement of repressed impatience and walked to the
window, where she remained a moment looking out. When she turned round
her visitor was still motionless in his place. She came toward him again
and stopped, resting her hand on the back of the chair she had just
quitted. "Do you mean you came simply to look at me? That's better for
you perhaps than for me."
"I wished to hear the sound of your voice," he said.
"You've heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet."
"It gives me pleasure, all the same." And with this he got up. She had
felt pain and displeasure on receiving early that day the news he was in
Florence and by her leave would come within an hour to see her. She
had been vexed and distressed, though she had sent back word by his
messenger that he might come when he would. She had not been better
pleased when she saw him; his being there at all was so full of heavy
implications. It implied things she could never assent to--rights,
reproaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expectation of making her change
her purpose. These things, however, if implied, had not been expressed;
and now our young lady, strangely enough, began to resent her visitor's
remarkable self-control. There was a dumb misery about him that
irritated her; there was a manly staying of his hand that made her heart
beat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herself
that she was angry in the way a woman is angry when she has been in the
wrong. She was not in the wrong; she had fortunately not that bitterness
to swallow; but, all the same, she wished he would denounce her a
little. She had wished his visit would be short; it had no purpose, no
propriety; yet now that he seemed to be turning away she felt a sudden
horror of his leaving her without uttering a word that would give her an
opportunity to defend herself more than she had done in writing to him
a month before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announce her
engagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, why should she desire
to defend herself? It was an excess of generosity on Isabel's part to
desire that Mr. Goodwood should be angry. And if he had not meanwhile
held himself hard it might have made him so to hear the tone in which
she suddenly exclaimed, as if she were accusing him of having accused
her: "I've not deceived you! I was perfectly free!"
"Yes, I know that," said Caspar.
"I gave you full warning that I'd do as I chose."
"You said you'd probably never marry, and you said it with such a manner
that I pretty well believed it."
She considered this an instant. "No one can be more surprised than
myself at my present intention."
"You told me that if I heard you were engaged I was not to believe
it," Caspar went on. "I heard it twenty days ago from yourself, but I
remembered what you had said. I thought there might be some mistake, and
that's partly why I came."
"If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that's soon done. There's
no mistake whatever."
"I saw that as soon as I came into the room."
"What good would it do you that I shouldn't marry?" she asked with a
certain fierceness.
"I should like it better than this."
"You're very selfish, as I said before."
"I know that. I'm selfish as iron."
"Even iron sometimes melts! If you'll be reasonable I'll see you again."
"Don't you call me reasonable now?"
"I don't know what to say to you," she answered with sudden humility.
"I shan't trouble you for a long time," the young man went on. He made
a step towards the door, but he stopped. "Another reason why I came was
that I wanted to hear what you would say in explanation of your having
changed your mind."
Her humbleness as suddenly deserted her. "In explanation? Do you think
I'm bound to explain?"
He gave her one of his long dumb looks. "You were very positive. I did
believe it."
"So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?"
"No, I suppose not. Well," he added, "I've done what I wished. I've seen
you."
"How little you make of these terrible journeys," she felt the poverty
of her presently replying.
"If you're afraid I'm knocked up--in any such way as that--you may be
at your ease about it." He turned away, this time in earnest, and no
hand-shake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them.
At the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. "I shall leave
Florence to-morrow," he said without a quaver.
"I'm delighted to hear it!" she answered passionately. Five minutes
after he had gone out she burst into tears.
| We learn that Isabel is waiting for Caspar Goodwood. Isabel tells her that she wishes he had not come. Mr. Goodwood tells her that after what she has done to him he shall never feel anything for the rest of his life - just what she has done to him. Isabel notes that she will have to prepare for Henrietta arriving, and Goodwood asks if Henrietta knows of Mr. Osmond. Isabel says that she does not marry to please Henrietta. Isabel claims that she does not marry for any of her friends, and that she is marrying a "perfect nonentity". Isabel feels agitation upon seeing Caspar Goodwood in his misery. But as he is leaving, she is afraid he will not utter the word that will give her the opportunity to defend herself. Although, the narrator wonders, if she has done nothing wrong, why is she so eager to defend herself. The narrator concludes that she is being generous to Goodwood. She claims she never deceived him, and that she was perfectly free. Caspar tells her he came to see for himself. He admits that he is selfish and would want her to be married to no one if she would not marry him. When he leaves, she breaks into a fit of weeping | summary |
It was not of him, nevertheless, that she was thinking while she stood
at the window near which we found her a while ago, and it was not of any
of the matters I have rapidly sketched. She was not turned to the past,
but to the immediate, impending hour. She had reason to expect a scene,
and she was not fond of scenes. She was not asking herself what she
should say to her visitor; this question had already been answered. What
he would say to her--that was the interesting issue. It could be nothing
in the least soothing--she had warrant for this, and the conviction
doubtless showed in the cloud on her brow. For the rest, however, all
clearness reigned in her; she had put away her mourning and she walked
in no small shimmering splendour. She only, felt older--ever so much,
and as if she were "worth more" for it, like some curious piece in an
antiquary's collection. She was not at any rate left indefinitely to her
apprehensions, for a servant at last stood before her with a card on his
tray. "Let the gentleman come in," she said, and continued to gaze out
of the window after the footman had retired. It was only when she had
heard the door close behind the person who presently entered that she
looked round.
Caspar Goodwood stood there--stood and received a moment, from head to
foot, the bright, dry gaze with which she rather withheld than offered
a greeting. Whether his sense of maturity had kept pace with Isabel's
we shall perhaps presently ascertain; let me say meanwhile that to
her critical glance he showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight,
strong and hard, there was nothing in his appearance that spoke
positively either of youth or of age; if he had neither innocence nor
weakness, so he had no practical philosophy. His jaw showed the same
voluntary cast as in earlier days; but a crisis like the present had in
it of course something grim. He had the air of a man who had travelled
hard; he said nothing at first, as if he had been out of breath. This
gave Isabel time to make a reflexion: "Poor fellow, what great things
he's capable of, and what a pity he should waste so dreadfully his
splendid force! What a pity too that one can't satisfy everybody!" It
gave her time to do more to say at the end of a minute: "I can't tell
you how I hoped you wouldn't come!"
"I've no doubt of that." And he looked about him for a seat. Not only
had he come, but he meant to settle.
"You must be very tired," said Isabel, seating herself, and generously,
as she thought, to give him his opportunity.
"No, I'm not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired?"
"Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?"
"Last night, very late; in a kind of snail-train they call the express.
These Italian trains go at about the rate of an American funeral."
"That's in keeping--you must have felt as if you were coming to bury
me!" And she forced a smile of encouragement to an easy view of their
situation. She had reasoned the matter well out, making it perfectly
clear that she broke no faith and falsified no contract; but for all
this she was afraid of her visitor. She was ashamed of her fear; but she
was devoutly thankful there was nothing else to be ashamed of. He looked
at her with his stiff insistence, an insistence in which there was such
a want of tact; especially when the dull dark beam in his eye rested on
her as a physical weight.
"No, I didn't feel that; I couldn't think of you as dead. I wish I
could!" he candidly declared.
"I thank you immensely."
"I'd rather think of you as dead than as married to another man."
"That's very selfish of you!" she returned with the ardour of a real
conviction. "If you're not happy yourself others have yet a right to
be."
"Very likely it's selfish; but I don't in the least mind your saying so.
I don't mind anything you can say now--I don't feel it. The cruellest
things you could think of would be mere pin-pricks. After what you've
done I shall never feel anything--I mean anything but that. That I shall
feel all my life."
Mr. Goodwood made these detached assertions with dry deliberateness,
in his hard, slow American tone, which flung no atmospheric colour over
propositions intrinsically crude. The tone made Isabel angry rather than
touched her; but her anger perhaps was fortunate, inasmuch as it gave
her a further reason for controlling herself. It was under the pressure
of this control that she became, after a little, irrelevant. "When did
you leave New York?"
He threw up his head as if calculating. "Seventeen days ago."
"You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains."
"I came as fast as I could. I'd have come five days ago if I had been
able."
"It wouldn't have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood," she coldly smiled.
"Not to you--no. But to me."
"You gain nothing that I see."
"That's for me to judge!"
"Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself." And then, to
change the subject, she asked him if he had seen Henrietta Stackpole.
He looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence to talk of
Henrietta Stackpole; but he answered, distinctly enough, that this young
lady had been with him just before he left America. "She came to see
you?" Isabel then demanded.
"Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day I
had got your letter."
"Did you tell her?" Isabel asked with a certain anxiety.
"Oh no," said Caspar Goodwood simply; "I didn't want to do that. She'll
hear it quick enough; she hears everything."
"I shall write to her, and then she'll write to me and scold me," Isabel
declared, trying to smile again.
Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. "I guess she'll come right
out," he said.
"On purpose to scold me?"
"I don't know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe thoroughly."
"I'm glad you tell me that," Isabel said. "I must prepare for her."
Mr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor; then at last,
raising them, "Does she know Mr. Osmond?" he enquired.
"A little. And she doesn't like him. But of course I don't marry to
please Henrietta," she added. It would have been better for poor Caspar
if she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he didn't
say so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place. To
which she made answer that she didn't know yet. "I can only say it will
be soon. I've told no one but yourself and one other person--an old
friend of Mr. Osmond's."
"Is it a marriage your friends won't like?" he demanded.
"I really haven't an idea. As I say, I don't marry for my friends."
He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking questions,
doing it quite without delicacy. "Who and what then is Mr. Gilbert
Osmond?"
"Who and what? Nobody and nothing but a very good and very honourable
man. He's not in business," said Isabel. "He's not rich; he's not known
for anything in particular."
She disliked Mr. Goodwood's questions, but she said to herself that she
owed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible. The satisfaction poor
Caspar exhibited was, however, small; he sat very upright, gazing at
her. "Where does he come from? Where does he belong?"
She had never been so little pleased with the way he said "belawng." "He
comes from nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy."
"You said in your letter he was American. Hasn't he a native place?"
"Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy."
"Has he never gone back?"
"Why should he go back?" Isabel asked, flushing all defensively. "He has
no profession."
"He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like the United
States?"
"He doesn't know them. Then he's very quiet and very simple--he contents
himself with Italy."
"With Italy and with you," said Mr. Goodwood with gloomy plainness and
no appearance of trying to make an epigram. "What has he ever done?" he
added abruptly.
"That I should marry him? Nothing at all," Isabel replied while her
patience helped itself by turning a little to hardness. "If he had done
great things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood;
I'm marrying a perfect nonentity. Don't try to take an interest in him.
You can't."
"I can't appreciate him; that's what you mean. And you don't mean in
the least that he's a perfect nonentity. You think he's grand, you think
he's great, though no one else thinks so."
Isabel's colour deepened; she felt this really acute of her companion,
and it was certainly a proof of the aid that passion might render
perceptions she had never taken for fine. "Why do you always come back
to what others think? I can't discuss Mr. Osmond with you."
"Of course not," said Caspar reasonably. And he sat there with his air
of stiff helplessness, as if not only this were true, but there were
nothing else that they might discuss.
"You see how little you gain," she accordingly broke out--"how little
comfort or satisfaction I can give you."
"I didn't expect you to give me much."
"I don't understand then why you came."
"I came because I wanted to see you once more--even just as you are."
"I appreciate that; but if you had waited a while, sooner or later
we should have been sure to meet, and our meeting would have been
pleasanter for each of us than this."
"Waited till after you're married? That's just what I didn't want to do.
You'll be different then."
"Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You'll see."
"That will make it all the worse," said Mr. Goodwood grimly.
"Ah, you're unaccommodating! I can't promise to dislike you in order to
help you to resign yourself."
"I shouldn't care if you did!"
Isabel got up with a movement of repressed impatience and walked to the
window, where she remained a moment looking out. When she turned round
her visitor was still motionless in his place. She came toward him again
and stopped, resting her hand on the back of the chair she had just
quitted. "Do you mean you came simply to look at me? That's better for
you perhaps than for me."
"I wished to hear the sound of your voice," he said.
"You've heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet."
"It gives me pleasure, all the same." And with this he got up. She had
felt pain and displeasure on receiving early that day the news he was in
Florence and by her leave would come within an hour to see her. She
had been vexed and distressed, though she had sent back word by his
messenger that he might come when he would. She had not been better
pleased when she saw him; his being there at all was so full of heavy
implications. It implied things she could never assent to--rights,
reproaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expectation of making her change
her purpose. These things, however, if implied, had not been expressed;
and now our young lady, strangely enough, began to resent her visitor's
remarkable self-control. There was a dumb misery about him that
irritated her; there was a manly staying of his hand that made her heart
beat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herself
that she was angry in the way a woman is angry when she has been in the
wrong. She was not in the wrong; she had fortunately not that bitterness
to swallow; but, all the same, she wished he would denounce her a
little. She had wished his visit would be short; it had no purpose, no
propriety; yet now that he seemed to be turning away she felt a sudden
horror of his leaving her without uttering a word that would give her an
opportunity to defend herself more than she had done in writing to him
a month before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announce her
engagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, why should she desire
to defend herself? It was an excess of generosity on Isabel's part to
desire that Mr. Goodwood should be angry. And if he had not meanwhile
held himself hard it might have made him so to hear the tone in which
she suddenly exclaimed, as if she were accusing him of having accused
her: "I've not deceived you! I was perfectly free!"
"Yes, I know that," said Caspar.
"I gave you full warning that I'd do as I chose."
"You said you'd probably never marry, and you said it with such a manner
that I pretty well believed it."
She considered this an instant. "No one can be more surprised than
myself at my present intention."
"You told me that if I heard you were engaged I was not to believe
it," Caspar went on. "I heard it twenty days ago from yourself, but I
remembered what you had said. I thought there might be some mistake, and
that's partly why I came."
"If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that's soon done. There's
no mistake whatever."
"I saw that as soon as I came into the room."
"What good would it do you that I shouldn't marry?" she asked with a
certain fierceness.
"I should like it better than this."
"You're very selfish, as I said before."
"I know that. I'm selfish as iron."
"Even iron sometimes melts! If you'll be reasonable I'll see you again."
"Don't you call me reasonable now?"
"I don't know what to say to you," she answered with sudden humility.
"I shan't trouble you for a long time," the young man went on. He made
a step towards the door, but he stopped. "Another reason why I came was
that I wanted to hear what you would say in explanation of your having
changed your mind."
Her humbleness as suddenly deserted her. "In explanation? Do you think
I'm bound to explain?"
He gave her one of his long dumb looks. "You were very positive. I did
believe it."
"So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?"
"No, I suppose not. Well," he added, "I've done what I wished. I've seen
you."
"How little you make of these terrible journeys," she felt the poverty
of her presently replying.
"If you're afraid I'm knocked up--in any such way as that--you may be
at your ease about it." He turned away, this time in earnest, and no
hand-shake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them.
At the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. "I shall leave
Florence to-morrow," he said without a quaver.
"I'm delighted to hear it!" she answered passionately. Five minutes
after he had gone out she burst into tears.
| . It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. "If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures," the narrator tells us. This again is called "hypothetical discourse" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. "His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her," the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great "idea" she would actualize in the world only in the "negative" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel "served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself." Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a "silver plate." Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself. | analysis |
Her fit of weeping, however, was soon smothered, and the signs of it had
vanished when, an hour later, she broke the news to her aunt. I use this
expression because she had been sure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased;
Isabel had only waited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She
had an odd impression that it would not be honourable to make the fact
public before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwood would say about
it. He had said rather less than she expected, and she now had a
somewhat angry sense of having lost time. But she would lose no more;
she waited till Mrs. Touchett came into the drawing-room before the
mid-day breakfast, and then she began. "Aunt Lydia, I've something to
tell you."
Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almost fiercely. "You
needn't tell me; I know what it is."
"I don't know how you know."
"The same way that I know when the window's open--by feeling a draught.
You're going to marry that man."
"What man do you mean?" Isabel enquired with great dignity.
"Madame Merle's friend--Mr. Osmond."
"I don't know why you call him Madame Merle's friend. Is that the
principal thing he's known by?"
"If he's not her friend he ought to be--after what she has done for
him!" cried Mrs. Touchett. "I shouldn't have expected it of her; I'm
disappointed."
"If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do with my engagement
you're greatly mistaken," Isabel declared with a sort of ardent
coldness.
"You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman's
having had to be lashed up? You're quite right. They're immense, your
attractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if she
hadn't put him up to it. He has a very good opinion of himself, but he
was not a man to take trouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him."
"He has taken a great deal for himself!" cried Isabel with a voluntary
laugh.
Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod. "I think he must, after all, to have
made you like him so much."
"I thought he even pleased YOU."
"He did, at one time; and that's why I'm angry with him."
"Be angry with me, not with him," said the girl.
"Oh, I'm always angry with you; that's no satisfaction! Was it for this
that you refused Lord Warburton?"
"Please don't go back to that. Why shouldn't I like Mr. Osmond, since
others have done so?"
"Others, at their wildest moments, never wanted to marry him. There's
nothing OF him," Mrs. Touchett explained.
"Then he can't hurt me," said Isabel.
"Do you think you're going to be happy? No one's happy, in such doings,
you should know."
"I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?"
"What YOU will marry for, heaven only knows. People usually marry as
they go into partnership--to set up a house. But in your partnership
you'll bring everything."
"Is it that Mr. Osmond isn't rich? Is that what you're talking about?"
Isabel asked.
"He has no money; he has no name; he has no importance. I value such
things and I have the courage to say it; I think they're very precious.
Many other people think the same, and they show it. But they give some
other reason."
Isabel hesitated a little. "I think I value everything that's valuable.
I care very much for money, and that's why I wish Mr. Osmond to have a
little."
"Give it to him then; but marry some one else."
"His name's good enough for me," the girl went on. "It's a very pretty
name. Have I such a fine one myself?"
"All the more reason you should improve on it. There are only a dozen
American names. Do you marry him out of charity?"
"It was my duty to tell you, Aunt Lydia, but I don't think it's my duty
to explain to you. Even if it were I shouldn't be able. So please don't
remonstrate; in talking about it you have me at a disadvantage. I can't
talk about it."
"I don't remonstrate, I simply answer you: I must give some sign of
intelligence. I saw it coming, and I said nothing. I never meddle."
"You never do, and I'm greatly obliged to you. You've been very
considerate."
"It was not considerate--it was convenient," said Mrs. Touchett. "But I
shall talk to Madame Merle."
"I don't see why you keep bringing her in. She has been a very good
friend to me."
"Possibly; but she has been a poor one to me."
"What has she done to you?"
"She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to prevent your
engagement."
"She couldn't have prevented it."
"She can do anything; that's what I've always liked her for. I knew she
could play any part; but I understood that she played them one by one. I
didn't understand that she would play two at the same time."
"I don't know what part she may have played to you," Isabel said;
"that's between yourselves. To me she has been honest and kind and
devoted."
"Devoted, of course; she wished you to marry her candidate. She told me
she was watching you only in order to interpose."
"She said that to please you," the girl answered; conscious, however, of
the inadequacy of the explanation.
"To please me by deceiving me? She knows me better. Am I pleased
to-day?"
"I don't think you're ever much pleased," Isabel was obliged to reply.
"If Madame Merle knew you would learn the truth what had she to gain by
insincerity?"
"She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to interfere you
were marching away, and she was really beating the drum."
"That's very well. But by your own admission you saw I was marching, and
even if she had given the alarm you wouldn't have tried to stop me."
"No, but some one else would."
"Whom do you mean?" Isabel asked, looking very hard at her aunt. Mrs.
Touchett's little bright eyes, active as they usually were, sustained
her gaze rather than returned it. "Would you have listened to Ralph?"
"Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond."
"Ralph doesn't abuse people; you know that perfectly. He cares very much
for you."
"I know he does," said Isabel; "and I shall feel the value of it now,
for he knows that whatever I do I do with reason."
"He never believed you would do this. I told him you were capable of it,
and he argued the other way."
"He did it for the sake of argument," the girl smiled. "You don't accuse
him of having deceived you; why should you accuse Madame Merle?"
"He never pretended he'd prevent it."
"I'm glad of that!" cried Isabel gaily. "I wish very much," she
presently added, "that when he comes you'd tell him first of my
engagement."
"Of course I'll mention it," said Mrs. Touchett. "I shall say nothing
more to you about it, but I give you notice I shall talk to others."
"That's as you please. I only meant that it's rather better the
announcement should come from you than from me."
"I quite agree with you; it's much more proper!" And on this the aunt
and the niece went to breakfast, where Mrs. Touchett, as good as her
word, made no allusion to Gilbert Osmond. After an interval of silence,
however, she asked her companion from whom she had received a visit an
hour before.
"From an old friend--an American gentleman," Isabel said with a colour
in her cheek.
"An American gentleman of course. It's only an American gentleman who
calls at ten o'clock in the morning."
"It was half-past ten; he was in a great hurry; he goes away this
evening."
"Couldn't he have come yesterday, at the usual time?"
"He only arrived last night."
"He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence?" Mrs. Touchett cried.
"He's an American gentleman truly."
"He is indeed," said Isabel, thinking with perverse admiration of what
Caspar Goodwood had done for her.
Two days afterward Ralph arrived; but though Isabel was sure that Mrs.
Touchett had lost no time in imparting to him the great fact, he showed
at first no open knowledge of it. Their prompted talk was naturally of
his health; Isabel had many questions to ask about Corfu. She had been
shocked by his appearance when he came into the room; she had forgotten
how ill he looked. In spite of Corfu he looked very ill to-day, and she
wondered if he were really worse or if she were simply disaccustomed
to living with an invalid. Poor Ralph made no nearer approach to
conventional beauty as he advanced in life, and the now apparently
complete loss of his health had done little to mitigate the natural
oddity of his person. Blighted and battered, but still responsive and
still ironic, his face was like a lighted lantern patched with paper
and unsteadily held; his thin whisker languished upon a lean cheek; the
exorbitant curve of his nose defined itself more sharply. Lean he was
altogether, lean and long and loose-jointed; an accidental cohesion of
relaxed angles. His brown velvet jacket had become perennial; his
hands had fixed themselves in his pockets; he shambled and stumbled and
shuffled in a manner that denoted great physical helplessness. It was
perhaps this whimsical gait that helped to mark his character more than
ever as that of the humorous invalid--the invalid for whom even his own
disabilities are part of the general joke. They might well indeed with
Ralph have been the chief cause of the want of seriousness marking his
view of a world in which the reason for his own continued presence was
past finding out. Isabel had grown fond of his ugliness; his awkwardness
had become dear to her. They had been sweetened by association; they
struck her as the very terms on which it had been given him to be
charming. He was so charming that her sense of his being ill had
hitherto had a sort of comfort in it; the state of his health had seemed
not a limitation, but a kind of intellectual advantage; it absolved him
from all professional and official emotions and left him the luxury of
being exclusively personal. The personality so resulting was delightful;
he had remained proof against the staleness of disease; he had had to
consent to be deplorably ill, yet had somehow escaped being formally
sick. Such had been the girl's impression of her cousin; and when she
had pitied him it was only on reflection. As she reflected a good deal
she had allowed him a certain amount of compassion; but she always had
a dread of wasting that essence--a precious article, worth more to the
giver than to any one else. Now, however, it took no great sensibility
to feel that poor Ralph's tenure of life was less elastic than it should
be. He was a bright, free, generous spirit, he had all the illumination
of wisdom and none of its pedantry, and yet he was distressfully dying.
Isabel noted afresh that life was certainly hard for some people,
and she felt a delicate glow of shame as she thought how easy it now
promised to become for herself. She was prepared to learn that Ralph was
not pleased with her engagement; but she was not prepared, in spite of
her affection for him, to let this fact spoil the situation. She was not
even prepared, or so she thought, to resent his want of sympathy; for
it would be his privilege--it would be indeed his natural line--to find
fault with any step she might take toward marriage. One's cousin always
pretended to hate one's husband; that was traditional, classical; it
was a part of one's cousin's always pretending to adore one. Ralph was
nothing if not critical; and though she would certainly, other things
being equal, have been as glad to marry to please him as to please any
one, it would be absurd to regard as important that her choice should
square with his views. What were his views after all? He had pretended
to believe she had better have married Lord Warburton; but this was
only because she had refused that excellent man. If she had accepted
him Ralph would certainly have taken another tone; he always took the
opposite. You could criticise any marriage; it was the essence of a
marriage to be open to criticism. How well she herself, should she only
give her mind to it, might criticise this union of her own! She had
other employment, however, and Ralph was welcome to relieve her of the
care. Isabel was prepared to be most patient and most indulgent. He must
have seen that, and this made it the more odd he should say nothing.
After three days had elapsed without his speaking our young woman
wearied of waiting; dislike it as he would, he might at least go through
the form. We, who know more about poor Ralph than his cousin, may easily
believe that during the hours that followed his arrival at Palazzo
Crescentini he had privately gone through many forms. His mother had
literally greeted him with the great news, which had been even more
sensibly chilling than Mrs. Touchett's maternal kiss. Ralph was shocked
and humiliated; his calculations had been false and the person in the
world in whom he was most interested was lost. He drifted about the
house like a rudderless vessel in a rocky stream, or sat in the garden
of the palace on a great cane chair, his long legs extended, his head
thrown back and his hat pulled over his eyes. He felt cold about the
heart; he had never liked anything less. What could he do, what could
he say? If the girl were irreclaimable could he pretend to like it?
To attempt to reclaim her was permissible only if the attempt should
succeed. To try to persuade her of anything sordid or sinister in the
man to whose deep art she had succumbed would be decently discreet only
in the event of her being persuaded. Otherwise he should simply have
damned himself. It cost him an equal effort to speak his thought and to
dissemble; he could neither assent with sincerity nor protest with hope.
Meanwhile he knew--or rather he supposed--that the affianced pair were
daily renewing their mutual vows. Osmond at this moment showed himself
little at Palazzo Crescentini; but Isabel met him every day elsewhere,
as she was free to do after their engagement had been made public. She
had taken a carriage by the month, so as not to be indebted to her aunt
for the means of pursuing a course of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved,
and she drove in the morning to the Cascine. This suburban wilderness,
during the early hours, was void of all intruders, and our young lady,
joined by her lover in its quietest part, strolled with him a while
through the grey Italian shade and listened to the nightingales.
| Isabel breaks the news of her engagement to Mrs. Touchett. Mrs. Touchett though, already seems to know. She blames Madame Merle, telling Isabel she now realizes that Merle only pretended to her that she would interfere if there were a danger that Isabel would marry Osmond. She thinks Merle has done something grand for Osmond, in giving him Isabel. Isabel does not think Merle had anything to do with her engagement. Mrs. Touchett thinks that Osmond has no name, no importance, and no fortune, so she has no idea why Isabel would marry him. Isabel hesitantly suggests that she should like to give Osmond some money. Mrs. Touchett wonders if Isabel marries Osmond for charity, and Isabel responds that she does not have to explain herself to Mrs. Touchett | summary |
Her fit of weeping, however, was soon smothered, and the signs of it had
vanished when, an hour later, she broke the news to her aunt. I use this
expression because she had been sure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased;
Isabel had only waited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She
had an odd impression that it would not be honourable to make the fact
public before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwood would say about
it. He had said rather less than she expected, and she now had a
somewhat angry sense of having lost time. But she would lose no more;
she waited till Mrs. Touchett came into the drawing-room before the
mid-day breakfast, and then she began. "Aunt Lydia, I've something to
tell you."
Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almost fiercely. "You
needn't tell me; I know what it is."
"I don't know how you know."
"The same way that I know when the window's open--by feeling a draught.
You're going to marry that man."
"What man do you mean?" Isabel enquired with great dignity.
"Madame Merle's friend--Mr. Osmond."
"I don't know why you call him Madame Merle's friend. Is that the
principal thing he's known by?"
"If he's not her friend he ought to be--after what she has done for
him!" cried Mrs. Touchett. "I shouldn't have expected it of her; I'm
disappointed."
"If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do with my engagement
you're greatly mistaken," Isabel declared with a sort of ardent
coldness.
"You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman's
having had to be lashed up? You're quite right. They're immense, your
attractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if she
hadn't put him up to it. He has a very good opinion of himself, but he
was not a man to take trouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him."
"He has taken a great deal for himself!" cried Isabel with a voluntary
laugh.
Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod. "I think he must, after all, to have
made you like him so much."
"I thought he even pleased YOU."
"He did, at one time; and that's why I'm angry with him."
"Be angry with me, not with him," said the girl.
"Oh, I'm always angry with you; that's no satisfaction! Was it for this
that you refused Lord Warburton?"
"Please don't go back to that. Why shouldn't I like Mr. Osmond, since
others have done so?"
"Others, at their wildest moments, never wanted to marry him. There's
nothing OF him," Mrs. Touchett explained.
"Then he can't hurt me," said Isabel.
"Do you think you're going to be happy? No one's happy, in such doings,
you should know."
"I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?"
"What YOU will marry for, heaven only knows. People usually marry as
they go into partnership--to set up a house. But in your partnership
you'll bring everything."
"Is it that Mr. Osmond isn't rich? Is that what you're talking about?"
Isabel asked.
"He has no money; he has no name; he has no importance. I value such
things and I have the courage to say it; I think they're very precious.
Many other people think the same, and they show it. But they give some
other reason."
Isabel hesitated a little. "I think I value everything that's valuable.
I care very much for money, and that's why I wish Mr. Osmond to have a
little."
"Give it to him then; but marry some one else."
"His name's good enough for me," the girl went on. "It's a very pretty
name. Have I such a fine one myself?"
"All the more reason you should improve on it. There are only a dozen
American names. Do you marry him out of charity?"
"It was my duty to tell you, Aunt Lydia, but I don't think it's my duty
to explain to you. Even if it were I shouldn't be able. So please don't
remonstrate; in talking about it you have me at a disadvantage. I can't
talk about it."
"I don't remonstrate, I simply answer you: I must give some sign of
intelligence. I saw it coming, and I said nothing. I never meddle."
"You never do, and I'm greatly obliged to you. You've been very
considerate."
"It was not considerate--it was convenient," said Mrs. Touchett. "But I
shall talk to Madame Merle."
"I don't see why you keep bringing her in. She has been a very good
friend to me."
"Possibly; but she has been a poor one to me."
"What has she done to you?"
"She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to prevent your
engagement."
"She couldn't have prevented it."
"She can do anything; that's what I've always liked her for. I knew she
could play any part; but I understood that she played them one by one. I
didn't understand that she would play two at the same time."
"I don't know what part she may have played to you," Isabel said;
"that's between yourselves. To me she has been honest and kind and
devoted."
"Devoted, of course; she wished you to marry her candidate. She told me
she was watching you only in order to interpose."
"She said that to please you," the girl answered; conscious, however, of
the inadequacy of the explanation.
"To please me by deceiving me? She knows me better. Am I pleased
to-day?"
"I don't think you're ever much pleased," Isabel was obliged to reply.
"If Madame Merle knew you would learn the truth what had she to gain by
insincerity?"
"She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to interfere you
were marching away, and she was really beating the drum."
"That's very well. But by your own admission you saw I was marching, and
even if she had given the alarm you wouldn't have tried to stop me."
"No, but some one else would."
"Whom do you mean?" Isabel asked, looking very hard at her aunt. Mrs.
Touchett's little bright eyes, active as they usually were, sustained
her gaze rather than returned it. "Would you have listened to Ralph?"
"Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond."
"Ralph doesn't abuse people; you know that perfectly. He cares very much
for you."
"I know he does," said Isabel; "and I shall feel the value of it now,
for he knows that whatever I do I do with reason."
"He never believed you would do this. I told him you were capable of it,
and he argued the other way."
"He did it for the sake of argument," the girl smiled. "You don't accuse
him of having deceived you; why should you accuse Madame Merle?"
"He never pretended he'd prevent it."
"I'm glad of that!" cried Isabel gaily. "I wish very much," she
presently added, "that when he comes you'd tell him first of my
engagement."
"Of course I'll mention it," said Mrs. Touchett. "I shall say nothing
more to you about it, but I give you notice I shall talk to others."
"That's as you please. I only meant that it's rather better the
announcement should come from you than from me."
"I quite agree with you; it's much more proper!" And on this the aunt
and the niece went to breakfast, where Mrs. Touchett, as good as her
word, made no allusion to Gilbert Osmond. After an interval of silence,
however, she asked her companion from whom she had received a visit an
hour before.
"From an old friend--an American gentleman," Isabel said with a colour
in her cheek.
"An American gentleman of course. It's only an American gentleman who
calls at ten o'clock in the morning."
"It was half-past ten; he was in a great hurry; he goes away this
evening."
"Couldn't he have come yesterday, at the usual time?"
"He only arrived last night."
"He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence?" Mrs. Touchett cried.
"He's an American gentleman truly."
"He is indeed," said Isabel, thinking with perverse admiration of what
Caspar Goodwood had done for her.
Two days afterward Ralph arrived; but though Isabel was sure that Mrs.
Touchett had lost no time in imparting to him the great fact, he showed
at first no open knowledge of it. Their prompted talk was naturally of
his health; Isabel had many questions to ask about Corfu. She had been
shocked by his appearance when he came into the room; she had forgotten
how ill he looked. In spite of Corfu he looked very ill to-day, and she
wondered if he were really worse or if she were simply disaccustomed
to living with an invalid. Poor Ralph made no nearer approach to
conventional beauty as he advanced in life, and the now apparently
complete loss of his health had done little to mitigate the natural
oddity of his person. Blighted and battered, but still responsive and
still ironic, his face was like a lighted lantern patched with paper
and unsteadily held; his thin whisker languished upon a lean cheek; the
exorbitant curve of his nose defined itself more sharply. Lean he was
altogether, lean and long and loose-jointed; an accidental cohesion of
relaxed angles. His brown velvet jacket had become perennial; his
hands had fixed themselves in his pockets; he shambled and stumbled and
shuffled in a manner that denoted great physical helplessness. It was
perhaps this whimsical gait that helped to mark his character more than
ever as that of the humorous invalid--the invalid for whom even his own
disabilities are part of the general joke. They might well indeed with
Ralph have been the chief cause of the want of seriousness marking his
view of a world in which the reason for his own continued presence was
past finding out. Isabel had grown fond of his ugliness; his awkwardness
had become dear to her. They had been sweetened by association; they
struck her as the very terms on which it had been given him to be
charming. He was so charming that her sense of his being ill had
hitherto had a sort of comfort in it; the state of his health had seemed
not a limitation, but a kind of intellectual advantage; it absolved him
from all professional and official emotions and left him the luxury of
being exclusively personal. The personality so resulting was delightful;
he had remained proof against the staleness of disease; he had had to
consent to be deplorably ill, yet had somehow escaped being formally
sick. Such had been the girl's impression of her cousin; and when she
had pitied him it was only on reflection. As she reflected a good deal
she had allowed him a certain amount of compassion; but she always had
a dread of wasting that essence--a precious article, worth more to the
giver than to any one else. Now, however, it took no great sensibility
to feel that poor Ralph's tenure of life was less elastic than it should
be. He was a bright, free, generous spirit, he had all the illumination
of wisdom and none of its pedantry, and yet he was distressfully dying.
Isabel noted afresh that life was certainly hard for some people,
and she felt a delicate glow of shame as she thought how easy it now
promised to become for herself. She was prepared to learn that Ralph was
not pleased with her engagement; but she was not prepared, in spite of
her affection for him, to let this fact spoil the situation. She was not
even prepared, or so she thought, to resent his want of sympathy; for
it would be his privilege--it would be indeed his natural line--to find
fault with any step she might take toward marriage. One's cousin always
pretended to hate one's husband; that was traditional, classical; it
was a part of one's cousin's always pretending to adore one. Ralph was
nothing if not critical; and though she would certainly, other things
being equal, have been as glad to marry to please him as to please any
one, it would be absurd to regard as important that her choice should
square with his views. What were his views after all? He had pretended
to believe she had better have married Lord Warburton; but this was
only because she had refused that excellent man. If she had accepted
him Ralph would certainly have taken another tone; he always took the
opposite. You could criticise any marriage; it was the essence of a
marriage to be open to criticism. How well she herself, should she only
give her mind to it, might criticise this union of her own! She had
other employment, however, and Ralph was welcome to relieve her of the
care. Isabel was prepared to be most patient and most indulgent. He must
have seen that, and this made it the more odd he should say nothing.
After three days had elapsed without his speaking our young woman
wearied of waiting; dislike it as he would, he might at least go through
the form. We, who know more about poor Ralph than his cousin, may easily
believe that during the hours that followed his arrival at Palazzo
Crescentini he had privately gone through many forms. His mother had
literally greeted him with the great news, which had been even more
sensibly chilling than Mrs. Touchett's maternal kiss. Ralph was shocked
and humiliated; his calculations had been false and the person in the
world in whom he was most interested was lost. He drifted about the
house like a rudderless vessel in a rocky stream, or sat in the garden
of the palace on a great cane chair, his long legs extended, his head
thrown back and his hat pulled over his eyes. He felt cold about the
heart; he had never liked anything less. What could he do, what could
he say? If the girl were irreclaimable could he pretend to like it?
To attempt to reclaim her was permissible only if the attempt should
succeed. To try to persuade her of anything sordid or sinister in the
man to whose deep art she had succumbed would be decently discreet only
in the event of her being persuaded. Otherwise he should simply have
damned himself. It cost him an equal effort to speak his thought and to
dissemble; he could neither assent with sincerity nor protest with hope.
Meanwhile he knew--or rather he supposed--that the affianced pair were
daily renewing their mutual vows. Osmond at this moment showed himself
little at Palazzo Crescentini; but Isabel met him every day elsewhere,
as she was free to do after their engagement had been made public. She
had taken a carriage by the month, so as not to be indebted to her aunt
for the means of pursuing a course of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved,
and she drove in the morning to the Cascine. This suburban wilderness,
during the early hours, was void of all intruders, and our young lady,
joined by her lover in its quietest part, strolled with him a while
through the grey Italian shade and listened to the nightingales.
| . It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. "If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures," the narrator tells us. This again is called "hypothetical discourse" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. "His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her," the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great "idea" she would actualize in the world only in the "negative" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel "served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself." Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a "silver plate." Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself. | analysis |
One morning, on her return from her drive, some half-hour before
luncheon, she quitted her vehicle in the court of the palace and,
instead of ascending the great staircase, crossed the court, passed
beneath another archway and entered the garden. A sweeter spot at this
moment could not have been imagined. The stillness of noontide hung over
it, and the warm shade, enclosed and still, made bowers like spacious
caves. Ralph was sitting there in the clear gloom, at the base of a
statue of Terpsichore--a dancing nymph with taper fingers and inflated
draperies in the manner of Bernini; the extreme relaxation of his
attitude suggested at first to Isabel that he was asleep. Her light
footstep on the grass had not roused him, and before turning away she
stood for a moment looking at him. During this instant he opened his
eyes; upon which she sat down on a rustic chair that matched with his
own. Though in her irritation she had accused him of indifference she
was not blind to the fact that he had visibly had something to brood
over. But she had explained his air of absence partly by the languor of
his increased weakness, partly by worries connected with the property
inherited from his father--the fruit of eccentric arrangements of
which Mrs. Touchett disapproved and which, as she had told Isabel, now
encountered opposition from the other partners in the bank. He ought to
have gone to England, his mother said, instead of coming to Florence;
he had not been there for months, and took no more interest in the bank
than in the state of Patagonia.
"I'm sorry I waked you," Isabel said; "you look too tired."
"I feel too tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of you."
"Are you tired of that?"
"Very much so. It leads to nothing. The road's long and I never arrive."
"What do you wish to arrive at?" she put to him, closing her parasol.
"At the point of expressing to myself properly what I think of your
engagement."
"Don't think too much of it," she lightly returned.
"Do you mean that it's none of my business?"
"Beyond a certain point, yes."
"That's the point I want to fix. I had an idea you may have found me
wanting in good manners. I've never congratulated you."
"Of course I've noticed that. I wondered why you were silent."
"There have been a good many reasons. I'll tell you now," Ralph said.
He pulled off his hat and laid it on the ground; then he sat looking at
her. He leaned back under the protection of Bernini, his head against
his marble pedestal, his arms dropped on either side of him, his hands
laid upon the rests of his wide chair. He looked awkward, uncomfortable;
he hesitated long. Isabel said nothing; when people were embarrassed she
was usually sorry for them, but she was determined not to help Ralph to
utter a word that should not be to the honour of her high decision. "I
think I've hardly got over my surprise," he went on at last. "You were
the last person I expected to see caught."
"I don't know why you call it caught."
"Because you're going to be put into a cage."
"If I like my cage, that needn't trouble you," she answered.
"That's what I wonder at; that's what I've been thinking of."
"If you've been thinking you may imagine how I've thought! I'm satisfied
that I'm doing well."
"You must have changed immensely. A year ago you valued your liberty
beyond everything. You wanted only to see life."
"I've seen it," said Isabel. "It doesn't look to me now, I admit, such
an inviting expanse."
"I don't pretend it is; only I had an idea that you took a genial view
of it and wanted to survey the whole field."
"I've seen that one can't do anything so general. One must choose a
corner and cultivate that."
"That's what I think. And one must choose as good a corner as possible.
I had no idea, all winter, while I read your delightful letters, that
you were choosing. You said nothing about it, and your silence put me
off my guard."
"It was not a matter I was likely to write to you about. Besides, I knew
nothing of the future. It has all come lately. If you had been on your
guard, however," Isabel asked, "what would you have done?"
"I should have said 'Wait a little longer.'"
"Wait for what?"
"Well, for a little more light," said Ralph with rather an absurd smile,
while his hands found their way into his pockets.
"Where should my light have come from? From you?"
"I might have struck a spark or two."
Isabel had drawn off her gloves; she smoothed them out as they lay
upon her knee. The mildness of this movement was accidental, for her
expression was not conciliatory. "You're beating about the bush, Ralph.
You wish to say you don't like Mr. Osmond, and yet you're afraid."
"Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike? I'm willing to wound HIM,
yes--but not to wound you. I'm afraid of you, not of him. If you marry
him it won't be a fortunate way for me to have spoken."
"IF I marry him! Have you had any expectation of dissuading me?"
"Of course that seems to you too fatuous."
"No," said Isabel after a little; "it seems to me too touching."
"That's the same thing. It makes me so ridiculous that you pity me."
She stroked out her long gloves again. "I know you've a great affection
for me. I can't get rid of that."
"For heaven's sake don't try. Keep that well in sight. It will convince
you how intensely I want you to do well."
"And how little you trust me!"
There was a moment's silence; the warm noontide seemed to listen. "I
trust you, but I don't trust him," said Ralph.
She raised her eyes and gave him a wide, deep look. "You've said it now,
and I'm glad you've made it so clear. But you'll suffer by it."
"Not if you're just."
"I'm very just," said Isabel. "What better proof of it can there be than
that I'm not angry with you? I don't know what's the matter with me, but
I'm not. I was when you began, but it has passed away. Perhaps I ought
to be angry, but Mr. Osmond wouldn't think so. He wants me to know
everything; that's what I like him for. You've nothing to gain, I know
that. I've never been so nice to you, as a girl, that you should have
much reason for wishing me to remain one. You give very good advice;
you've often done so. No, I'm very quiet; I've always believed in your
wisdom," she went on, boasting of her quietness, yet speaking with a
kind of contained exaltation. It was her passionate desire to be
just; it touched Ralph to the heart, affected him like a caress from a
creature he had injured. He wished to interrupt, to reassure her; for a
moment he was absurdly inconsistent; he would have retracted what he had
said. But she gave him no chance; she went on, having caught a glimpse,
as she thought, of the heroic line and desiring to advance in that
direction. "I see you've some special idea; I should like very much to
hear it. I'm sure it's disinterested; I feel that. It seems a strange
thing to argue about, and of course I ought to tell you definitely that
if you expect to dissuade me you may give it up. You'll not move me
an inch; it's too late. As you say, I'm caught. Certainly it won't be
pleasant for you to remember this, but your pain will be in your own
thoughts. I shall never reproach you."
"I don't think you ever will," said Ralph. "It's not in the least the
sort of marriage I thought you'd make."
"What sort of marriage was that, pray?"
"Well, I can hardly say. I hadn't exactly a positive view of it, but I
had a negative. I didn't think you'd decide for--well, for that type."
"What's the matter with Mr. Osmond's type, if it be one? His being
so independent, so individual, is what I most see in him," the girl
declared. "What do you know against him? You know him scarcely at all."
"Yes," Ralph said, "I know him very little, and I confess I haven't
facts and items to prove him a villain. But all the same I can't help
feeling that you're running a grave risk."
"Marriage is always a grave risk, and his risk's as grave as mine."
"That's his affair! If he's afraid, let him back out. I wish to God he
would."
Isabel reclined in her chair, folding her arms and gazing a while at her
cousin. "I don't think I understand you," she said at last coldly. "I
don't know what you're talking about."
"I believed you'd marry a man of more importance."
Cold, I say, her tone had been, but at this a colour like a flame leaped
into her face. "Of more importance to whom? It seems to me enough that
one's husband should be of importance to one's self!"
Ralph blushed as well; his attitude embarrassed him. Physically speaking
he proceeded to change it; he straightened himself, then leaned forward,
resting a hand on each knee. He fixed his eyes on the ground; he had an
air of the most respectful deliberation.
"I'll tell you in a moment what I mean," he presently said. He felt
agitated, intensely eager; now that he had opened the discussion he
wished to discharge his mind. But he wished also to be superlatively
gentle.
Isabel waited a little--then she went on with majesty. "In everything
that makes one care for people Mr. Osmond is pre-eminent. There may
be nobler natures, but I've never had the pleasure of meeting one. Mr.
Osmond's is the finest I know; he's good enough for me, and interesting
enough, and clever enough. I'm far more struck with what he has and what
he represents than with what he may lack."
"I had treated myself to a charming vision of your future," Ralph
observed without answering this; "I had amused myself with planning out
a high destiny for you. There was to be nothing of this sort in it. You
were not to come down so easily or so soon."
"Come down, you say?"
"Well, that renders my sense of what has happened to you. You seemed to
me to be soaring far up in the blue--to be, sailing in the bright light,
over the heads of men. Suddenly some one tosses up a faded rosebud--a
missile that should never have reached you--and straight you drop to
the ground. It hurts me," said Ralph audaciously, "hurts me as if I had
fallen myself!"
The look of pain and bewilderment deepened in his companion's face. "I
don't understand you in the least," she repeated. "You say you amused
yourself with a project for my career--I don't understand that.
Don't amuse yourself too much, or I shall think you're doing it at my
expense."
Ralph shook his head. "I'm not afraid of your not believing that I've
had great ideas for you."
"What do you mean by my soaring and sailing?" she pursued.
"I've never moved on a higher plane than I'm moving on now. There's
nothing higher for a girl than to marry a--a person she likes," said
poor Isabel, wandering into the didactic.
"It's your liking the person we speak of that I venture to criticise, my
dear cousin. I should have said that the man for you would have been a
more active, larger, freer sort of nature." Ralph hesitated, then added:
"I can't get over the sense that Osmond is somehow--well, small." He had
uttered the last word with no great assurance; he was afraid she would
flash out again. But to his surprise she was quiet; she had the air of
considering.
"Small?" She made it sound immense.
"I think he's narrow, selfish. He takes himself so seriously!"
"He has a great respect for himself; I don't blame him for that," said
Isabel. "It makes one more sure to respect others."
Ralph for a moment felt almost reassured by her reasonable tone.
"Yes, but everything is relative; one ought to feel one's relation to
things--to others. I don't think Mr. Osmond does that."
"I've chiefly to do with his relation to me. In that he's excellent."
"He's the incarnation of taste," Ralph went on, thinking hard how he
could best express Gilbert Osmond's sinister attributes without putting
himself in the wrong by seeming to describe him coarsely. He wished
to describe him impersonally, scientifically. "He judges and measures,
approves and condemns, altogether by that."
"It's a happy thing then that his taste should be exquisite."
"It's exquisite, indeed, since it has led him to select you as
his bride. But have you ever seen such a taste--a really exquisite
one--ruffled?"
"I hope it may never be my fortune to fail to gratify my husband's."
At these words a sudden passion leaped to Ralph's lips. "Ah, that's
wilful, that's unworthy of you! You were not meant to be measured in
that way--you were meant for something better than to keep guard over
the sensibilities of a sterile dilettante!"
Isabel rose quickly and he did the same, so that they stood for a moment
looking at each other as if he had flung down a defiance or an insult.
But "You go too far," she simply breathed.
"I've said what I had on my mind--and I've said it because I love you!"
Isabel turned pale: was he too on that tiresome list? She had a sudden
wish to strike him off. "Ah then, you're not disinterested!"
"I love you, but I love without hope," said Ralph quickly, forcing a
smile and feeling that in that last declaration he had expressed more
than he intended.
Isabel moved away and stood looking into the sunny stillness of the
garden; but after a little she turned back to him. "I'm afraid your talk
then is the wildness of despair! I don't understand it--but it doesn't
matter. I'm not arguing with you; it's impossible I should; I've only
tried to listen to you. I'm much obliged to you for attempting to
explain," she said gently, as if the anger with which she had just
sprung up had already subsided. "It's very good of you to try to warn
me, if you're really alarmed; but I won't promise to think of what
you've said: I shall forget it as soon as possible. Try and forget it
yourself; you've done your duty, and no man can do more. I can't explain
to you what I feel, what I believe, and I wouldn't if I could." She
paused a moment and then went on with an inconsequence that Ralph
observed even in the midst of his eagerness to discover some symptom of
concession. "I can't enter into your idea of Mr. Osmond; I can't do it
justice, because I see him in quite another way. He's not important--no,
he's not important; he's a man to whom importance is supremely
indifferent. If that's what you mean when you call him 'small,' then
he's as small as you please. I call that large--it's the largest thing
I know. I won't pretend to argue with you about a person I'm going to
marry," Isabel repeated. "I'm not in the least concerned to defend Mr.
Osmond; he's not so weak as to need my defence. I should think it would
seem strange even to yourself that I should talk of him so quietly and
coldly, as if he were any one else. I wouldn't talk of him at all to any
one but you; and you, after what you've said--I may just answer you once
for all. Pray, would you wish me to make a mercenary marriage--what
they call a marriage of ambition? I've only one ambition--to be free to
follow out a good feeling. I had others once, but they've passed away.
Do you complain of Mr. Osmond because he's not rich? That's just what I
like him for. I've fortunately money enough; I've never felt so thankful
for it as to-day. There have been moments when I should like to go and
kneel down by your father's grave: he did perhaps a better thing than
he knew when he put it into my power to marry a poor man--a man who has
borne his poverty with such dignity, with such indifference. Mr. Osmond
has never scrambled nor struggled--he has cared for no worldly prize. If
that's to be narrow, if that's to be selfish, then it's very well. I'm
not frightened by such words, I'm not even displeased; I'm only sorry
that you should make a mistake. Others might have done so, but I'm
surprised that you should. You might know a gentleman when you see
one--you might know a fine mind. Mr. Osmond makes no mistakes! He knows
everything, he understands everything, he has the kindest, gentlest,
highest spirit. You've got hold of some false idea. It's a pity, but
I can't help it; it regards you more than me." Isabel paused a moment,
looking at her cousin with an eye illumined by a sentiment which
contradicted the careful calmness of her manner--a mingled sentiment,
to which the angry pain excited by his words and the wounded pride of
having needed to justify a choice of which she felt only the nobleness
and purity, equally contributed. Though she paused Ralph said
nothing; he saw she had more to say. She was grand, but she was highly
solicitous; she was indifferent, but she was all in a passion. "What
sort of a person should you have liked me to marry?" she asked suddenly.
"You talk about one's soaring and sailing, but if one marries at all one
touches the earth. One has human feelings and needs, one has a heart in
one's bosom, and one must marry a particular individual. Your mother
has never forgiven me for not having come to a better understanding
with Lord Warburton, and she's horrified at my contenting myself with a
person who has none of his great advantages--no property, no title,
no honours, no houses, nor lands, nor position, nor reputation, nor
brilliant belongings of any sort. It's the total absence of all these
things that pleases me. Mr. Osmond's simply a very lonely, a very
cultivated and a very honest man--he's not a prodigious proprietor."
Ralph had listened with great attention, as if everything she said
merited deep consideration; but in truth he was only half thinking of
the things she said, he was for the rest simply accommodating himself
to the weight of his total impression--the impression of her ardent good
faith. She was wrong, but she believed; she was deluded, but she was
dismally consistent. It was wonderfully characteristic of her that,
having invented a fine theory, about Gilbert Osmond, she loved him not
for what he really possessed, but for his very poverties dressed out as
honours. Ralph remembered what he had said to his father about wishing
to put it into her power to meet the requirements of her imagination. He
had done so, and the girl had taken full advantage of the luxury. Poor
Ralph felt sick; he felt ashamed. Isabel had uttered her last words with
a low solemnity of conviction which virtually terminated the discussion,
and she closed it formally by turning away and walking back to the
house. Ralph walked beside her, and they passed into the court together
and reached the big staircase. Here he stopped and Isabel paused,
turning on him a face of elation--absolutely and perversely of
gratitude. His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct
clearer to her. "Shall you not come up to breakfast?" she asked.
"No; I want no breakfast; I'm not hungry."
"You ought to eat," said the girl; "you live on air."
"I do, very much, and I shall go back into the garden and take another
mouthful. I came thus far simply to say this. I told you last year that
if you were to get into trouble I should feel terribly sold. That's how
I feel to-day."
"Do you think I'm in trouble?"
"One's in trouble when one's in error."
"Very well," said Isabel; "I shall never complain of my trouble to you!"
And she moved up the staircase.
Ralph, standing there with his hands in his pockets, followed her with
his eyes; then the lurking chill of the high-walled court struck him and
made him shiver, so that he returned to the garden to breakfast on the
Florentine sunshine.
| Isabel and Mrs. Touchett agree that Mrs. Touchett will be the one to announce the engagement to the others. Ralph arrives two days after this discussion with Mrs. Touchett. Isabel knows he has been informed of the engagement, and prepares herself to meet with his resistance. But he is silent on the subject for several days, and she can only be patient and expectant. The narrator informs us though that Ralph indeed was displeased with the engagement, and he feels humiliated. He had miscalculated what Isabel would do. Isabel happens upon Ralph in the garden. He seems to be sleeping - but when Isabel approaches him, he says he is just thinking of her. They finally broach the subject of her engagement. He tells her that he can only say what he thinks of Osmond if she ends up not going through with the engagement, because otherwise he will have spoken ill of her husband to be. This is offensive already to her, but she says she is not angry because she knows his opinion is disinterested. He says she has been trapped, and that she will be put into a cage. She asks what the harm is, if she likes her cage. He finally admits to thinking that Osmond is small. She considers this - the word seems large to her. Ralph says that he thinks Osmond has taste, and only taste - he does nothing, he only judges. He does not really feel his relation to others, according to Ralph. He of course has no proof that Osmond is a sinister character, but he nevertheless has guessed that he is a selfish person. He had thought of Isabel as a soaring creature, high up in the air, and he feels that she has fallen. Isabel does not know what she means about being high in the sky. Ralph accidentally lets slip that he loves Isabel, and Isabel is annoyed - is he too on that tiresome list. She wishes to strike him off that list. Ralph quickly realizes his mistake and tells her he is still disinterested in the matter because he loves without hope. Isabel says that she likes what Osmond has and what he represents. She believes that Osmond is a man to whom being important is not a big deal - and she finds that large. Would Ralph prefer it, she asks, if she made a marriage of ambition, so that she herself could become more important for being with someone important. She likes it that Mr. Osmond is not rich. She thinks Ralph is making a mistake in his judgment of Mr. Osmond's character. Osmond wants to teach her about the world, and she believes he knows everything, understands everything. Ralph realizes how ardently Isabel believes what she says -- he finds her "dismally consistent". He realizes that she "loved him not for what he possessed, but for his very poverties dressed out as honours. Ralph felt sick, realizing that he had wanted Isabel to be able to meet her imagination with the financial means to do so - he realizes that his act of beneficence has resulted in her ability to do so by Isabel feels more resolved by the end of their conversation, and Ralph realizes he can do nothing. He says that he feels bad, because she is in trouble. Isabel says she will never complain to him if she is in trouble | summary |
One morning, on her return from her drive, some half-hour before
luncheon, she quitted her vehicle in the court of the palace and,
instead of ascending the great staircase, crossed the court, passed
beneath another archway and entered the garden. A sweeter spot at this
moment could not have been imagined. The stillness of noontide hung over
it, and the warm shade, enclosed and still, made bowers like spacious
caves. Ralph was sitting there in the clear gloom, at the base of a
statue of Terpsichore--a dancing nymph with taper fingers and inflated
draperies in the manner of Bernini; the extreme relaxation of his
attitude suggested at first to Isabel that he was asleep. Her light
footstep on the grass had not roused him, and before turning away she
stood for a moment looking at him. During this instant he opened his
eyes; upon which she sat down on a rustic chair that matched with his
own. Though in her irritation she had accused him of indifference she
was not blind to the fact that he had visibly had something to brood
over. But she had explained his air of absence partly by the languor of
his increased weakness, partly by worries connected with the property
inherited from his father--the fruit of eccentric arrangements of
which Mrs. Touchett disapproved and which, as she had told Isabel, now
encountered opposition from the other partners in the bank. He ought to
have gone to England, his mother said, instead of coming to Florence;
he had not been there for months, and took no more interest in the bank
than in the state of Patagonia.
"I'm sorry I waked you," Isabel said; "you look too tired."
"I feel too tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of you."
"Are you tired of that?"
"Very much so. It leads to nothing. The road's long and I never arrive."
"What do you wish to arrive at?" she put to him, closing her parasol.
"At the point of expressing to myself properly what I think of your
engagement."
"Don't think too much of it," she lightly returned.
"Do you mean that it's none of my business?"
"Beyond a certain point, yes."
"That's the point I want to fix. I had an idea you may have found me
wanting in good manners. I've never congratulated you."
"Of course I've noticed that. I wondered why you were silent."
"There have been a good many reasons. I'll tell you now," Ralph said.
He pulled off his hat and laid it on the ground; then he sat looking at
her. He leaned back under the protection of Bernini, his head against
his marble pedestal, his arms dropped on either side of him, his hands
laid upon the rests of his wide chair. He looked awkward, uncomfortable;
he hesitated long. Isabel said nothing; when people were embarrassed she
was usually sorry for them, but she was determined not to help Ralph to
utter a word that should not be to the honour of her high decision. "I
think I've hardly got over my surprise," he went on at last. "You were
the last person I expected to see caught."
"I don't know why you call it caught."
"Because you're going to be put into a cage."
"If I like my cage, that needn't trouble you," she answered.
"That's what I wonder at; that's what I've been thinking of."
"If you've been thinking you may imagine how I've thought! I'm satisfied
that I'm doing well."
"You must have changed immensely. A year ago you valued your liberty
beyond everything. You wanted only to see life."
"I've seen it," said Isabel. "It doesn't look to me now, I admit, such
an inviting expanse."
"I don't pretend it is; only I had an idea that you took a genial view
of it and wanted to survey the whole field."
"I've seen that one can't do anything so general. One must choose a
corner and cultivate that."
"That's what I think. And one must choose as good a corner as possible.
I had no idea, all winter, while I read your delightful letters, that
you were choosing. You said nothing about it, and your silence put me
off my guard."
"It was not a matter I was likely to write to you about. Besides, I knew
nothing of the future. It has all come lately. If you had been on your
guard, however," Isabel asked, "what would you have done?"
"I should have said 'Wait a little longer.'"
"Wait for what?"
"Well, for a little more light," said Ralph with rather an absurd smile,
while his hands found their way into his pockets.
"Where should my light have come from? From you?"
"I might have struck a spark or two."
Isabel had drawn off her gloves; she smoothed them out as they lay
upon her knee. The mildness of this movement was accidental, for her
expression was not conciliatory. "You're beating about the bush, Ralph.
You wish to say you don't like Mr. Osmond, and yet you're afraid."
"Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike? I'm willing to wound HIM,
yes--but not to wound you. I'm afraid of you, not of him. If you marry
him it won't be a fortunate way for me to have spoken."
"IF I marry him! Have you had any expectation of dissuading me?"
"Of course that seems to you too fatuous."
"No," said Isabel after a little; "it seems to me too touching."
"That's the same thing. It makes me so ridiculous that you pity me."
She stroked out her long gloves again. "I know you've a great affection
for me. I can't get rid of that."
"For heaven's sake don't try. Keep that well in sight. It will convince
you how intensely I want you to do well."
"And how little you trust me!"
There was a moment's silence; the warm noontide seemed to listen. "I
trust you, but I don't trust him," said Ralph.
She raised her eyes and gave him a wide, deep look. "You've said it now,
and I'm glad you've made it so clear. But you'll suffer by it."
"Not if you're just."
"I'm very just," said Isabel. "What better proof of it can there be than
that I'm not angry with you? I don't know what's the matter with me, but
I'm not. I was when you began, but it has passed away. Perhaps I ought
to be angry, but Mr. Osmond wouldn't think so. He wants me to know
everything; that's what I like him for. You've nothing to gain, I know
that. I've never been so nice to you, as a girl, that you should have
much reason for wishing me to remain one. You give very good advice;
you've often done so. No, I'm very quiet; I've always believed in your
wisdom," she went on, boasting of her quietness, yet speaking with a
kind of contained exaltation. It was her passionate desire to be
just; it touched Ralph to the heart, affected him like a caress from a
creature he had injured. He wished to interrupt, to reassure her; for a
moment he was absurdly inconsistent; he would have retracted what he had
said. But she gave him no chance; she went on, having caught a glimpse,
as she thought, of the heroic line and desiring to advance in that
direction. "I see you've some special idea; I should like very much to
hear it. I'm sure it's disinterested; I feel that. It seems a strange
thing to argue about, and of course I ought to tell you definitely that
if you expect to dissuade me you may give it up. You'll not move me
an inch; it's too late. As you say, I'm caught. Certainly it won't be
pleasant for you to remember this, but your pain will be in your own
thoughts. I shall never reproach you."
"I don't think you ever will," said Ralph. "It's not in the least the
sort of marriage I thought you'd make."
"What sort of marriage was that, pray?"
"Well, I can hardly say. I hadn't exactly a positive view of it, but I
had a negative. I didn't think you'd decide for--well, for that type."
"What's the matter with Mr. Osmond's type, if it be one? His being
so independent, so individual, is what I most see in him," the girl
declared. "What do you know against him? You know him scarcely at all."
"Yes," Ralph said, "I know him very little, and I confess I haven't
facts and items to prove him a villain. But all the same I can't help
feeling that you're running a grave risk."
"Marriage is always a grave risk, and his risk's as grave as mine."
"That's his affair! If he's afraid, let him back out. I wish to God he
would."
Isabel reclined in her chair, folding her arms and gazing a while at her
cousin. "I don't think I understand you," she said at last coldly. "I
don't know what you're talking about."
"I believed you'd marry a man of more importance."
Cold, I say, her tone had been, but at this a colour like a flame leaped
into her face. "Of more importance to whom? It seems to me enough that
one's husband should be of importance to one's self!"
Ralph blushed as well; his attitude embarrassed him. Physically speaking
he proceeded to change it; he straightened himself, then leaned forward,
resting a hand on each knee. He fixed his eyes on the ground; he had an
air of the most respectful deliberation.
"I'll tell you in a moment what I mean," he presently said. He felt
agitated, intensely eager; now that he had opened the discussion he
wished to discharge his mind. But he wished also to be superlatively
gentle.
Isabel waited a little--then she went on with majesty. "In everything
that makes one care for people Mr. Osmond is pre-eminent. There may
be nobler natures, but I've never had the pleasure of meeting one. Mr.
Osmond's is the finest I know; he's good enough for me, and interesting
enough, and clever enough. I'm far more struck with what he has and what
he represents than with what he may lack."
"I had treated myself to a charming vision of your future," Ralph
observed without answering this; "I had amused myself with planning out
a high destiny for you. There was to be nothing of this sort in it. You
were not to come down so easily or so soon."
"Come down, you say?"
"Well, that renders my sense of what has happened to you. You seemed to
me to be soaring far up in the blue--to be, sailing in the bright light,
over the heads of men. Suddenly some one tosses up a faded rosebud--a
missile that should never have reached you--and straight you drop to
the ground. It hurts me," said Ralph audaciously, "hurts me as if I had
fallen myself!"
The look of pain and bewilderment deepened in his companion's face. "I
don't understand you in the least," she repeated. "You say you amused
yourself with a project for my career--I don't understand that.
Don't amuse yourself too much, or I shall think you're doing it at my
expense."
Ralph shook his head. "I'm not afraid of your not believing that I've
had great ideas for you."
"What do you mean by my soaring and sailing?" she pursued.
"I've never moved on a higher plane than I'm moving on now. There's
nothing higher for a girl than to marry a--a person she likes," said
poor Isabel, wandering into the didactic.
"It's your liking the person we speak of that I venture to criticise, my
dear cousin. I should have said that the man for you would have been a
more active, larger, freer sort of nature." Ralph hesitated, then added:
"I can't get over the sense that Osmond is somehow--well, small." He had
uttered the last word with no great assurance; he was afraid she would
flash out again. But to his surprise she was quiet; she had the air of
considering.
"Small?" She made it sound immense.
"I think he's narrow, selfish. He takes himself so seriously!"
"He has a great respect for himself; I don't blame him for that," said
Isabel. "It makes one more sure to respect others."
Ralph for a moment felt almost reassured by her reasonable tone.
"Yes, but everything is relative; one ought to feel one's relation to
things--to others. I don't think Mr. Osmond does that."
"I've chiefly to do with his relation to me. In that he's excellent."
"He's the incarnation of taste," Ralph went on, thinking hard how he
could best express Gilbert Osmond's sinister attributes without putting
himself in the wrong by seeming to describe him coarsely. He wished
to describe him impersonally, scientifically. "He judges and measures,
approves and condemns, altogether by that."
"It's a happy thing then that his taste should be exquisite."
"It's exquisite, indeed, since it has led him to select you as
his bride. But have you ever seen such a taste--a really exquisite
one--ruffled?"
"I hope it may never be my fortune to fail to gratify my husband's."
At these words a sudden passion leaped to Ralph's lips. "Ah, that's
wilful, that's unworthy of you! You were not meant to be measured in
that way--you were meant for something better than to keep guard over
the sensibilities of a sterile dilettante!"
Isabel rose quickly and he did the same, so that they stood for a moment
looking at each other as if he had flung down a defiance or an insult.
But "You go too far," she simply breathed.
"I've said what I had on my mind--and I've said it because I love you!"
Isabel turned pale: was he too on that tiresome list? She had a sudden
wish to strike him off. "Ah then, you're not disinterested!"
"I love you, but I love without hope," said Ralph quickly, forcing a
smile and feeling that in that last declaration he had expressed more
than he intended.
Isabel moved away and stood looking into the sunny stillness of the
garden; but after a little she turned back to him. "I'm afraid your talk
then is the wildness of despair! I don't understand it--but it doesn't
matter. I'm not arguing with you; it's impossible I should; I've only
tried to listen to you. I'm much obliged to you for attempting to
explain," she said gently, as if the anger with which she had just
sprung up had already subsided. "It's very good of you to try to warn
me, if you're really alarmed; but I won't promise to think of what
you've said: I shall forget it as soon as possible. Try and forget it
yourself; you've done your duty, and no man can do more. I can't explain
to you what I feel, what I believe, and I wouldn't if I could." She
paused a moment and then went on with an inconsequence that Ralph
observed even in the midst of his eagerness to discover some symptom of
concession. "I can't enter into your idea of Mr. Osmond; I can't do it
justice, because I see him in quite another way. He's not important--no,
he's not important; he's a man to whom importance is supremely
indifferent. If that's what you mean when you call him 'small,' then
he's as small as you please. I call that large--it's the largest thing
I know. I won't pretend to argue with you about a person I'm going to
marry," Isabel repeated. "I'm not in the least concerned to defend Mr.
Osmond; he's not so weak as to need my defence. I should think it would
seem strange even to yourself that I should talk of him so quietly and
coldly, as if he were any one else. I wouldn't talk of him at all to any
one but you; and you, after what you've said--I may just answer you once
for all. Pray, would you wish me to make a mercenary marriage--what
they call a marriage of ambition? I've only one ambition--to be free to
follow out a good feeling. I had others once, but they've passed away.
Do you complain of Mr. Osmond because he's not rich? That's just what I
like him for. I've fortunately money enough; I've never felt so thankful
for it as to-day. There have been moments when I should like to go and
kneel down by your father's grave: he did perhaps a better thing than
he knew when he put it into my power to marry a poor man--a man who has
borne his poverty with such dignity, with such indifference. Mr. Osmond
has never scrambled nor struggled--he has cared for no worldly prize. If
that's to be narrow, if that's to be selfish, then it's very well. I'm
not frightened by such words, I'm not even displeased; I'm only sorry
that you should make a mistake. Others might have done so, but I'm
surprised that you should. You might know a gentleman when you see
one--you might know a fine mind. Mr. Osmond makes no mistakes! He knows
everything, he understands everything, he has the kindest, gentlest,
highest spirit. You've got hold of some false idea. It's a pity, but
I can't help it; it regards you more than me." Isabel paused a moment,
looking at her cousin with an eye illumined by a sentiment which
contradicted the careful calmness of her manner--a mingled sentiment,
to which the angry pain excited by his words and the wounded pride of
having needed to justify a choice of which she felt only the nobleness
and purity, equally contributed. Though she paused Ralph said
nothing; he saw she had more to say. She was grand, but she was highly
solicitous; she was indifferent, but she was all in a passion. "What
sort of a person should you have liked me to marry?" she asked suddenly.
"You talk about one's soaring and sailing, but if one marries at all one
touches the earth. One has human feelings and needs, one has a heart in
one's bosom, and one must marry a particular individual. Your mother
has never forgiven me for not having come to a better understanding
with Lord Warburton, and she's horrified at my contenting myself with a
person who has none of his great advantages--no property, no title,
no honours, no houses, nor lands, nor position, nor reputation, nor
brilliant belongings of any sort. It's the total absence of all these
things that pleases me. Mr. Osmond's simply a very lonely, a very
cultivated and a very honest man--he's not a prodigious proprietor."
Ralph had listened with great attention, as if everything she said
merited deep consideration; but in truth he was only half thinking of
the things she said, he was for the rest simply accommodating himself
to the weight of his total impression--the impression of her ardent good
faith. She was wrong, but she believed; she was deluded, but she was
dismally consistent. It was wonderfully characteristic of her that,
having invented a fine theory, about Gilbert Osmond, she loved him not
for what he really possessed, but for his very poverties dressed out as
honours. Ralph remembered what he had said to his father about wishing
to put it into her power to meet the requirements of her imagination. He
had done so, and the girl had taken full advantage of the luxury. Poor
Ralph felt sick; he felt ashamed. Isabel had uttered her last words with
a low solemnity of conviction which virtually terminated the discussion,
and she closed it formally by turning away and walking back to the
house. Ralph walked beside her, and they passed into the court together
and reached the big staircase. Here he stopped and Isabel paused,
turning on him a face of elation--absolutely and perversely of
gratitude. His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct
clearer to her. "Shall you not come up to breakfast?" she asked.
"No; I want no breakfast; I'm not hungry."
"You ought to eat," said the girl; "you live on air."
"I do, very much, and I shall go back into the garden and take another
mouthful. I came thus far simply to say this. I told you last year that
if you were to get into trouble I should feel terribly sold. That's how
I feel to-day."
"Do you think I'm in trouble?"
"One's in trouble when one's in error."
"Very well," said Isabel; "I shall never complain of my trouble to you!"
And she moved up the staircase.
Ralph, standing there with his hands in his pockets, followed her with
his eyes; then the lurking chill of the high-walled court struck him and
made him shiver, so that he returned to the garden to breakfast on the
Florentine sunshine.
| . It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. "If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures," the narrator tells us. This again is called "hypothetical discourse" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. "His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her," the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great "idea" she would actualize in the world only in the "negative" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel "served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself." Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a "silver plate." Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself. | analysis |
Isabel, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt no impulse
to tell him how little he was approved at Palazzo Crescentini. The
discreet opposition offered to her marriage by her aunt and her cousin
made on the whole no great impression upon her; the moral of it was
simply that they disliked Gilbert Osmond. This dislike was not alarming
to Isabel; she scarcely even regretted it; for it served mainly to
throw into higher relief the fact, in every way so honourable, that she
married to please herself. One did other things to please other people;
one did this for a more personal satisfaction; and Isabel's satisfaction
was confirmed by her lover's admirable good conduct. Gilbert Osmond was
in love, and he had never deserved less than during these still, bright
days, each of them numbered, which preceded the fulfilment of his
hopes, the harsh criticism passed upon him by Ralph Touchett. The chief
impression produced on Isabel's spirit by this criticism was that the
passion of love separated its victim terribly from every one but the
loved object. She felt herself disjoined from every one she had ever
known before--from her two sisters, who wrote to express a dutiful hope
that she would be happy, and a surprise, somewhat more vague, at her
not having chosen a consort who was the hero of a richer accumulation of
anecdote; from Henrietta, who, she was sure, would come out, too late,
on purpose to remonstrate; from Lord Warburton, who would certainly
console himself, and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would not; from
her aunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage, for which she
was not sorry to display her contempt; and from Ralph, whose talk
about having great views for her was surely but a whimsical cover for
a personal disappointment. Ralph apparently wished her not to marry
at all--that was what it really meant--because he was amused with the
spectacle of her adventures as a single woman. His disappointment made
him say angry things about the man she had preferred even to him: Isabel
flattered herself that she believed Ralph had been angry. It was the
more easy for her to believe this because, as I say, she had now little
free or unemployed emotion for minor needs, and accepted as an incident,
in fact quite as an ornament, of her lot the idea that to prefer Gilbert
Osmond as she preferred him was perforce to break all other ties. She
tasted of the sweets of this preference, and they made her conscious,
almost with awe, of the invidious and remorseless tide of the charmed
and possessed condition, great as was the traditional honour and imputed
virtue of being in love. It was the tragic part of happiness; one's
right was always made of the wrong of some one else.
The elation of success, which surely now flamed high in Osmond, emitted
meanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant a blaze. Contentment, on
his part, took no vulgar form; excitement, in the most self-conscious of
men, was a kind of ecstasy of self-control. This disposition, however,
made him an admirable lover; it gave him a constant view of the smitten
and dedicated state. He never forgot himself, as I say; and so he
never forgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appearance--which
presented indeed no difficulty--of stirred senses and deep intentions.
He was immensely pleased with his young lady; Madame Merle had made him
a present of incalculable value. What could be a finer thing to live
with than a high spirit attuned to softness? For would not the softness
be all for one's self, and the strenuousness for society, which admired
the air of superiority? What could be a happier gift in a companion than
a quick, fanciful mind which saved one repetitions and reflected one's
thought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmond hated to see his thought
reproduced literally--that made it look stale and stupid; he preferred
it to be freshened in the reproduction even as "words" by music. His
egotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this
lady's intelligence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one--a
plate that he might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would give
a decorative value, so that talk might become for him a sort of served
dessert. He found the silver quality in this perfection in Isabel; he
could tap her imagination with his knuckle and make it ring. He knew
perfectly, though he had not been told, that their union enjoyed little
favour with the girl's relations; but he had always treated her so
completely as an independent person that it hardly seemed necessary
to express regret for the attitude of her family. Nevertheless, one
morning, he made an abrupt allusion to it. "It's the difference in our
fortune they don't like," he said. "They think I'm in love with your
money."
"Are you speaking of my aunt--of my cousin?" Isabel asked. "How do you
know what they think?"
"You've not told me they're pleased, and when I wrote to Mrs. Touchett
the other day she never answered my note. If they had been delighted I
should have had some sign of it, and the fact of my being poor and you
rich is the most obvious explanation of their reserve. But of course
when a poor man marries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations.
I don't mind them; I only care for one thing--for your not having
the shadow of a doubt. I don't care what people of whom I ask nothing
think--I'm not even capable perhaps of wanting to know. I've never so
concerned myself, God forgive me, and why should I begin to-day, when I
have taken to myself a compensation for everything? I won't pretend
I'm sorry you're rich; I'm delighted. I delight in everything that's
yours--whether it be money or virtue. Money's a horrid thing to follow,
but a charming thing to meet. It seems to me, however, that I've
sufficiently proved the limits of my itch for it: I never in my life
tried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspicion than
most of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. I suppose it's their
business to suspect--that of your family; it's proper on the whole they
should. They'll like me better some day; so will you, for that matter.
Meanwhile my business is not to make myself bad blood, but simply to
be thankful for life and love." "It has made me better, loving you," he
said on another occasion; "it has made me wiser and easier and--I won't
pretend to deny--brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used to want
a great many things before and to be angry I didn't have them.
Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. I flattered myself
I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to
have morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I'm really
satisfied, because I can't think of anything better. It's just as when
one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight and suddenly the
lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life and
finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it
properly I see it's a delightful story. My dear girl, I can't tell you
how life seems to stretch there before us--what a long summer afternoon
awaits us. It's the latter half of an Italian day--with a golden haze,
and the shadows just lengthening, and that divine delicacy in the light,
the air, the landscape, which I have loved all my life and which you
love to-day. Upon my honour, I don't see why we shouldn't get on. We've
got what we like--to say nothing of having each other. We've the faculty
of admiration and several capital convictions. We're not stupid, we're
not mean, we're not under bonds to any kind of ignorance or dreariness.
You're remarkably fresh, and I'm remarkably well-seasoned. We've my poor
child to amuse us; we'll try and make up some little life for her. It's
all soft and mellow--it has the Italian colouring."
They made a good many plans, but they left themselves also a good deal
of latitude; it was a matter of course, however, that they should live
for the present in Italy. It was in Italy that they had met, Italy had
been a party to their first impressions of each other, and Italy
should be a party to their happiness. Osmond had the attachment of old
acquaintance and Isabel the stimulus of new, which seemed to assure her
a future at a high level of consciousness of the beautiful. The desire
for unlimited expansion had been succeeded in her soul by the sense
that life was vacant without some private duty that might gather one's
energies to a point. She had told Ralph she had "seen life" in a year
or two and that she was already tired, not of the act of living, but of
that of observing. What had become of all her ardours, her aspirations,
her theories, her high estimate of her independence and her incipient
conviction that she should never marry? These things had been absorbed
in a more primitive need--a need the answer to which brushed away
numberless questions, yet gratified infinite desires. It simplified the
situation at a stroke, it came down from above like the light of the
stars, and it needed no explanation. There was explanation enough in the
fact that he was her lover, her own, and that she should be able to be
of use to him. She could surrender to him with a kind of humility, she
could marry him with a kind of pride; she was not only taking, she was
giving.
He brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cascine--Pansy who
was very little taller than a year before, and not much older. That she
would always be a child was the conviction expressed by her father, who
held her by the hand when she was in her sixteenth year and told her to
go and play while he sat down a little with the pretty lady. Pansy wore
a short dress and a long coat; her hat always seemed too big for her.
She found pleasure in walking off, with quick, short steps, to the
end of the alley, and then in walking back with a smile that seemed an
appeal for approbation. Isabel approved in abundance, and the abundance
had the personal touch that the child's affectionate nature craved.
She watched her indications as if for herself also much depended on
them--Pansy already so represented part of the service she could render,
part of the responsibility she could face. Her father took so the
childish view of her that he had not yet explained to her the new
relation in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer. "She doesn't
know," he said to Isabel; "she doesn't guess; she thinks it perfectly
natural that you and I should come and walk here together simply as good
friends. There seems to me something enchantingly innocent in that; it's
the way I like her to be. No, I'm not a failure, as I used to think;
I've succeeded in two things. I'm to marry the woman I adore, and I've
brought up my child, as I wished, in the old way."
He was very fond, in all things, of the "old way"; that had struck
Isabel as one of his fine, quiet, sincere notes. "It occurs to me that
you'll not know whether you've succeeded until you've told her," she
said. "You must see how she takes your news, She may be horrified--she
may be jealous."
"I'm not afraid of that; she's too fond of you on her own account. I
should like to leave her in the dark a little longer--to see if it will
come into her head that if we're not engaged we ought to be."
Isabel was impressed by Osmond's artistic, the plastic view, as it
somehow appeared, of Pansy's innocence--her own appreciation of it being
more anxiously moral. She was perhaps not the less pleased when he told
her a few days later that he had communicated the fact to his daughter,
who had made such a pretty little speech--"Oh, then I shall have a
beautiful sister!" She was neither surprised nor alarmed; she had not
cried, as he expected.
"Perhaps she had guessed it," said Isabel.
"Don't say that; I should be disgusted if I believed that. I thought it
would be just a little shock; but the way she took it proves that her
good manners are paramount. That's also what I wished. You shall see for
yourself; to-morrow she shall make you her congratulations in person."
The meeting, on the morrow, took place at the Countess Gemini's, whither
Pansy had been conducted by her father, who knew that Isabel was to come
in the afternoon to return a visit made her by the Countess on learning
that they were to become sisters-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett the
visitor had not found Isabel at home; but after our young woman had been
ushered into the Countess's drawing-room Pansy arrived to say that her
aunt would presently appear. Pansy was spending the day with that lady,
who thought her of an age to begin to learn how to carry herself in
company. It was Isabel's view that the little girl might have given
lessons in deportment to her relative, and nothing could have justified
this conviction more than the manner in which Pansy acquitted herself
while they waited together for the Countess. Her father's decision, the
year before, had finally been to send her back to the convent to receive
the last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidently carried out her
theory that Pansy was to be fitted for the great world.
"Papa has told me that you've kindly consented to marry him," said this
excellent woman's pupil. "It's very delightful; I think you'll suit very
well."
"You think I shall suit YOU?"
"You'll suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you and papa will
suit each other. You're both so quiet and so serious. You're not so
quiet as he--or even as Madame Merle; but you're more quiet than many
others. He should not for instance have a wife like my aunt. She's
always in motion, in agitation--to-day especially; you'll see when she
comes in. They told us at the convent it was wrong to judge our elders,
but I suppose there's no harm if we judge them favourably. You'll be a
delightful companion for papa."
"For you too, I hope," Isabel said.
"I speak first of him on purpose. I've told you already what I myself
think of you; I liked you from the first. I admire you so much that I
think it will be a good fortune to have you always before me. You'll be
my model; I shall try to imitate you though I'm afraid it will be
very feeble. I'm very glad for papa--he needed something more than
me. Without you I don't see how he could have got it. You'll be my
stepmother, but we mustn't use that word. They're always said to be
cruel; but I don't think you'll ever so much as pinch or even push me.
I'm not afraid at all."
"My good little Pansy," said Isabel gently, "I shall be ever so kind to
you." A vague, inconsequent vision of her coming in some odd way to need
it had intervened with the effect of a chill.
"Very well then, I've nothing to fear," the child returned with her
note of prepared promptitude. What teaching she had had, it seemed to
suggest--or what penalties for non-performance she dreaded!
Her description of her aunt had not been incorrect; the Countess Gemini
was further than ever from having folded her wings. She entered the room
with a flutter through the air and kissed Isabel first on the forehead
and then on each cheek as if according to some ancient prescribed rite.
She drew the visitor to a sofa and, looking at her with a variety of
turns of the head, began to talk very much as if, seated brush in hand
before an easel, she were applying a series of considered touches to
a composition of figures already sketched in. "If you expect me to
congratulate you I must beg you to excuse me. I don't suppose you care
if I do or not; I believe you're supposed not to care--through being so
clever--for all sorts of ordinary things. But I care myself if I tell
fibs; I never tell them unless there's something rather good to be
gained. I don't see what's to be gained with you--especially as you
wouldn't believe me. I don't make professions any more than I make paper
flowers or flouncey lampshades--I don't know how. My lampshades would be
sure to take fire, my roses and my fibs to be larger than life. I'm very
glad for my own sake that you're to marry Osmond; but I won't pretend
I'm glad for yours. You're very brilliant--you know that's the way
you're always spoken of; you're an heiress and very good-looking and
original, not banal; so it's a good thing to have you in the family.
Our family's very good, you know; Osmond will have told you that; and
my mother was rather distinguished--she was called the American Corinne.
But we're dreadfully fallen, I think, and perhaps you'll pick us up.
I've great confidence in you; there are ever so many things I want to
talk to you about. I never congratulate any girl on marrying; I think
they ought to make it somehow not quite so awful a steel trap. I suppose
Pansy oughtn't to hear all this; but that's what she has come to me
for--to acquire the tone of society. There's no harm in her knowing what
horrors she may be in for. When first I got an idea that my brother had
designs on you I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in the
strongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it would be
disloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides, as I say, I was
enchanted for myself; and after all I'm very selfish. By the way, you
won't respect me, not one little mite, and we shall never be intimate.
I should like it, but you won't. Some day, all the same, we shall be
better friends than you will believe at first. My husband will come and
see you, though, as you probably know, he's on no sort of terms with
Osmond. He's very fond of going to see pretty women, but I'm not afraid
of you. In the first place I don't care what he does. In the second, you
won't care a straw for him; he won't be a bit, at any time, your affair,
and, stupid as he is, he'll see you're not his. Some day, if you can
stand it, I'll tell you all about him. Do you think my niece ought to go
out of the room? Pansy, go and practise a little in my boudoir."
"Let her stay, please," said Isabel. "I would rather hear nothing that
Pansy may not!"
| Isabel feels isolated now that she knows how her friends disapprove of her marriage. The narrator tells us: "the chief impression produced on Isabel's spirit by this criticism was that the passion of love separated its victim terribly from everyone but the loved object". She knew Henrietta would come out to disapprove of her, and she thinks also of the disapproval that Caspar Goodwood had and that Lord Warburton would undoubtedly have. Her sisters have written to her out of duty, but they also wonder why she did not make a better match. Osmond is satisfied - the narrator describes him as full of self-control, and capable thus of acting tender and kind. He does think that Madame Merle has made him a wonderful "present". He is glad that Isabel is not dull; he thinks of her as a "silver plate" that reflects back to him his own thoughts in an original form, making them seem all the more splendid. He knows though that their relations do not approve, and he tells Isabel that he thinks they disapprove because of their difference in fortune. He defends himself by saying that he has shown himself to never care for money, insofar as he has never tried to earn it. He tells her they will get on very well. Isabel meanwhile feels that she is surrendering to Osmond in an act of humility - rather than simply taking in the act of marriage, she has something to give. She is tired of observing - after a year of traveling abroad - and now wants to engage in the "act of living" even more. No longer did she feel she could never marry - she has a more primitive need to be beneficent. She is glad to have a private duty "that might gather one's energies to a point". Pansy is glad the two will marry. She thinks that Isabel and her father suit each other well. When they are discussing the matter though, Isabel has a strange fear that she will one day have to protect Pansy from harm. Countess Gemini tells Isabel that she is glad for herself that Isabel and Osmond will marry, but she cannot be glad for Isabel. She declares that she only tells fibs if she has something to gain from it, and therefore she is being honest with Isabel when she tells her that she and Osmond have fallen quite low in status. She predicts that Isabel and herself will never be quite intimate with each other. She makes some declarations as to marriage in general, how she sees them as a "steel trap" for women | summary |
Isabel, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt no impulse
to tell him how little he was approved at Palazzo Crescentini. The
discreet opposition offered to her marriage by her aunt and her cousin
made on the whole no great impression upon her; the moral of it was
simply that they disliked Gilbert Osmond. This dislike was not alarming
to Isabel; she scarcely even regretted it; for it served mainly to
throw into higher relief the fact, in every way so honourable, that she
married to please herself. One did other things to please other people;
one did this for a more personal satisfaction; and Isabel's satisfaction
was confirmed by her lover's admirable good conduct. Gilbert Osmond was
in love, and he had never deserved less than during these still, bright
days, each of them numbered, which preceded the fulfilment of his
hopes, the harsh criticism passed upon him by Ralph Touchett. The chief
impression produced on Isabel's spirit by this criticism was that the
passion of love separated its victim terribly from every one but the
loved object. She felt herself disjoined from every one she had ever
known before--from her two sisters, who wrote to express a dutiful hope
that she would be happy, and a surprise, somewhat more vague, at her
not having chosen a consort who was the hero of a richer accumulation of
anecdote; from Henrietta, who, she was sure, would come out, too late,
on purpose to remonstrate; from Lord Warburton, who would certainly
console himself, and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would not; from
her aunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage, for which she
was not sorry to display her contempt; and from Ralph, whose talk
about having great views for her was surely but a whimsical cover for
a personal disappointment. Ralph apparently wished her not to marry
at all--that was what it really meant--because he was amused with the
spectacle of her adventures as a single woman. His disappointment made
him say angry things about the man she had preferred even to him: Isabel
flattered herself that she believed Ralph had been angry. It was the
more easy for her to believe this because, as I say, she had now little
free or unemployed emotion for minor needs, and accepted as an incident,
in fact quite as an ornament, of her lot the idea that to prefer Gilbert
Osmond as she preferred him was perforce to break all other ties. She
tasted of the sweets of this preference, and they made her conscious,
almost with awe, of the invidious and remorseless tide of the charmed
and possessed condition, great as was the traditional honour and imputed
virtue of being in love. It was the tragic part of happiness; one's
right was always made of the wrong of some one else.
The elation of success, which surely now flamed high in Osmond, emitted
meanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant a blaze. Contentment, on
his part, took no vulgar form; excitement, in the most self-conscious of
men, was a kind of ecstasy of self-control. This disposition, however,
made him an admirable lover; it gave him a constant view of the smitten
and dedicated state. He never forgot himself, as I say; and so he
never forgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appearance--which
presented indeed no difficulty--of stirred senses and deep intentions.
He was immensely pleased with his young lady; Madame Merle had made him
a present of incalculable value. What could be a finer thing to live
with than a high spirit attuned to softness? For would not the softness
be all for one's self, and the strenuousness for society, which admired
the air of superiority? What could be a happier gift in a companion than
a quick, fanciful mind which saved one repetitions and reflected one's
thought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmond hated to see his thought
reproduced literally--that made it look stale and stupid; he preferred
it to be freshened in the reproduction even as "words" by music. His
egotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this
lady's intelligence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one--a
plate that he might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would give
a decorative value, so that talk might become for him a sort of served
dessert. He found the silver quality in this perfection in Isabel; he
could tap her imagination with his knuckle and make it ring. He knew
perfectly, though he had not been told, that their union enjoyed little
favour with the girl's relations; but he had always treated her so
completely as an independent person that it hardly seemed necessary
to express regret for the attitude of her family. Nevertheless, one
morning, he made an abrupt allusion to it. "It's the difference in our
fortune they don't like," he said. "They think I'm in love with your
money."
"Are you speaking of my aunt--of my cousin?" Isabel asked. "How do you
know what they think?"
"You've not told me they're pleased, and when I wrote to Mrs. Touchett
the other day she never answered my note. If they had been delighted I
should have had some sign of it, and the fact of my being poor and you
rich is the most obvious explanation of their reserve. But of course
when a poor man marries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations.
I don't mind them; I only care for one thing--for your not having
the shadow of a doubt. I don't care what people of whom I ask nothing
think--I'm not even capable perhaps of wanting to know. I've never so
concerned myself, God forgive me, and why should I begin to-day, when I
have taken to myself a compensation for everything? I won't pretend
I'm sorry you're rich; I'm delighted. I delight in everything that's
yours--whether it be money or virtue. Money's a horrid thing to follow,
but a charming thing to meet. It seems to me, however, that I've
sufficiently proved the limits of my itch for it: I never in my life
tried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspicion than
most of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. I suppose it's their
business to suspect--that of your family; it's proper on the whole they
should. They'll like me better some day; so will you, for that matter.
Meanwhile my business is not to make myself bad blood, but simply to
be thankful for life and love." "It has made me better, loving you," he
said on another occasion; "it has made me wiser and easier and--I won't
pretend to deny--brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used to want
a great many things before and to be angry I didn't have them.
Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. I flattered myself
I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to
have morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I'm really
satisfied, because I can't think of anything better. It's just as when
one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight and suddenly the
lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life and
finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it
properly I see it's a delightful story. My dear girl, I can't tell you
how life seems to stretch there before us--what a long summer afternoon
awaits us. It's the latter half of an Italian day--with a golden haze,
and the shadows just lengthening, and that divine delicacy in the light,
the air, the landscape, which I have loved all my life and which you
love to-day. Upon my honour, I don't see why we shouldn't get on. We've
got what we like--to say nothing of having each other. We've the faculty
of admiration and several capital convictions. We're not stupid, we're
not mean, we're not under bonds to any kind of ignorance or dreariness.
You're remarkably fresh, and I'm remarkably well-seasoned. We've my poor
child to amuse us; we'll try and make up some little life for her. It's
all soft and mellow--it has the Italian colouring."
They made a good many plans, but they left themselves also a good deal
of latitude; it was a matter of course, however, that they should live
for the present in Italy. It was in Italy that they had met, Italy had
been a party to their first impressions of each other, and Italy
should be a party to their happiness. Osmond had the attachment of old
acquaintance and Isabel the stimulus of new, which seemed to assure her
a future at a high level of consciousness of the beautiful. The desire
for unlimited expansion had been succeeded in her soul by the sense
that life was vacant without some private duty that might gather one's
energies to a point. She had told Ralph she had "seen life" in a year
or two and that she was already tired, not of the act of living, but of
that of observing. What had become of all her ardours, her aspirations,
her theories, her high estimate of her independence and her incipient
conviction that she should never marry? These things had been absorbed
in a more primitive need--a need the answer to which brushed away
numberless questions, yet gratified infinite desires. It simplified the
situation at a stroke, it came down from above like the light of the
stars, and it needed no explanation. There was explanation enough in the
fact that he was her lover, her own, and that she should be able to be
of use to him. She could surrender to him with a kind of humility, she
could marry him with a kind of pride; she was not only taking, she was
giving.
He brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cascine--Pansy who
was very little taller than a year before, and not much older. That she
would always be a child was the conviction expressed by her father, who
held her by the hand when she was in her sixteenth year and told her to
go and play while he sat down a little with the pretty lady. Pansy wore
a short dress and a long coat; her hat always seemed too big for her.
She found pleasure in walking off, with quick, short steps, to the
end of the alley, and then in walking back with a smile that seemed an
appeal for approbation. Isabel approved in abundance, and the abundance
had the personal touch that the child's affectionate nature craved.
She watched her indications as if for herself also much depended on
them--Pansy already so represented part of the service she could render,
part of the responsibility she could face. Her father took so the
childish view of her that he had not yet explained to her the new
relation in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer. "She doesn't
know," he said to Isabel; "she doesn't guess; she thinks it perfectly
natural that you and I should come and walk here together simply as good
friends. There seems to me something enchantingly innocent in that; it's
the way I like her to be. No, I'm not a failure, as I used to think;
I've succeeded in two things. I'm to marry the woman I adore, and I've
brought up my child, as I wished, in the old way."
He was very fond, in all things, of the "old way"; that had struck
Isabel as one of his fine, quiet, sincere notes. "It occurs to me that
you'll not know whether you've succeeded until you've told her," she
said. "You must see how she takes your news, She may be horrified--she
may be jealous."
"I'm not afraid of that; she's too fond of you on her own account. I
should like to leave her in the dark a little longer--to see if it will
come into her head that if we're not engaged we ought to be."
Isabel was impressed by Osmond's artistic, the plastic view, as it
somehow appeared, of Pansy's innocence--her own appreciation of it being
more anxiously moral. She was perhaps not the less pleased when he told
her a few days later that he had communicated the fact to his daughter,
who had made such a pretty little speech--"Oh, then I shall have a
beautiful sister!" She was neither surprised nor alarmed; she had not
cried, as he expected.
"Perhaps she had guessed it," said Isabel.
"Don't say that; I should be disgusted if I believed that. I thought it
would be just a little shock; but the way she took it proves that her
good manners are paramount. That's also what I wished. You shall see for
yourself; to-morrow she shall make you her congratulations in person."
The meeting, on the morrow, took place at the Countess Gemini's, whither
Pansy had been conducted by her father, who knew that Isabel was to come
in the afternoon to return a visit made her by the Countess on learning
that they were to become sisters-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett the
visitor had not found Isabel at home; but after our young woman had been
ushered into the Countess's drawing-room Pansy arrived to say that her
aunt would presently appear. Pansy was spending the day with that lady,
who thought her of an age to begin to learn how to carry herself in
company. It was Isabel's view that the little girl might have given
lessons in deportment to her relative, and nothing could have justified
this conviction more than the manner in which Pansy acquitted herself
while they waited together for the Countess. Her father's decision, the
year before, had finally been to send her back to the convent to receive
the last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidently carried out her
theory that Pansy was to be fitted for the great world.
"Papa has told me that you've kindly consented to marry him," said this
excellent woman's pupil. "It's very delightful; I think you'll suit very
well."
"You think I shall suit YOU?"
"You'll suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you and papa will
suit each other. You're both so quiet and so serious. You're not so
quiet as he--or even as Madame Merle; but you're more quiet than many
others. He should not for instance have a wife like my aunt. She's
always in motion, in agitation--to-day especially; you'll see when she
comes in. They told us at the convent it was wrong to judge our elders,
but I suppose there's no harm if we judge them favourably. You'll be a
delightful companion for papa."
"For you too, I hope," Isabel said.
"I speak first of him on purpose. I've told you already what I myself
think of you; I liked you from the first. I admire you so much that I
think it will be a good fortune to have you always before me. You'll be
my model; I shall try to imitate you though I'm afraid it will be
very feeble. I'm very glad for papa--he needed something more than
me. Without you I don't see how he could have got it. You'll be my
stepmother, but we mustn't use that word. They're always said to be
cruel; but I don't think you'll ever so much as pinch or even push me.
I'm not afraid at all."
"My good little Pansy," said Isabel gently, "I shall be ever so kind to
you." A vague, inconsequent vision of her coming in some odd way to need
it had intervened with the effect of a chill.
"Very well then, I've nothing to fear," the child returned with her
note of prepared promptitude. What teaching she had had, it seemed to
suggest--or what penalties for non-performance she dreaded!
Her description of her aunt had not been incorrect; the Countess Gemini
was further than ever from having folded her wings. She entered the room
with a flutter through the air and kissed Isabel first on the forehead
and then on each cheek as if according to some ancient prescribed rite.
She drew the visitor to a sofa and, looking at her with a variety of
turns of the head, began to talk very much as if, seated brush in hand
before an easel, she were applying a series of considered touches to
a composition of figures already sketched in. "If you expect me to
congratulate you I must beg you to excuse me. I don't suppose you care
if I do or not; I believe you're supposed not to care--through being so
clever--for all sorts of ordinary things. But I care myself if I tell
fibs; I never tell them unless there's something rather good to be
gained. I don't see what's to be gained with you--especially as you
wouldn't believe me. I don't make professions any more than I make paper
flowers or flouncey lampshades--I don't know how. My lampshades would be
sure to take fire, my roses and my fibs to be larger than life. I'm very
glad for my own sake that you're to marry Osmond; but I won't pretend
I'm glad for yours. You're very brilliant--you know that's the way
you're always spoken of; you're an heiress and very good-looking and
original, not banal; so it's a good thing to have you in the family.
Our family's very good, you know; Osmond will have told you that; and
my mother was rather distinguished--she was called the American Corinne.
But we're dreadfully fallen, I think, and perhaps you'll pick us up.
I've great confidence in you; there are ever so many things I want to
talk to you about. I never congratulate any girl on marrying; I think
they ought to make it somehow not quite so awful a steel trap. I suppose
Pansy oughtn't to hear all this; but that's what she has come to me
for--to acquire the tone of society. There's no harm in her knowing what
horrors she may be in for. When first I got an idea that my brother had
designs on you I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in the
strongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it would be
disloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides, as I say, I was
enchanted for myself; and after all I'm very selfish. By the way, you
won't respect me, not one little mite, and we shall never be intimate.
I should like it, but you won't. Some day, all the same, we shall be
better friends than you will believe at first. My husband will come and
see you, though, as you probably know, he's on no sort of terms with
Osmond. He's very fond of going to see pretty women, but I'm not afraid
of you. In the first place I don't care what he does. In the second, you
won't care a straw for him; he won't be a bit, at any time, your affair,
and, stupid as he is, he'll see you're not his. Some day, if you can
stand it, I'll tell you all about him. Do you think my niece ought to go
out of the room? Pansy, go and practise a little in my boudoir."
"Let her stay, please," said Isabel. "I would rather hear nothing that
Pansy may not!"
| . It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. "If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures," the narrator tells us. This again is called "hypothetical discourse" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. "His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her," the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great "idea" she would actualize in the world only in the "negative" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel "served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself." Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a "silver plate." Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself. | analysis |
One afternoon of the autumn of 1876, toward dusk, a young man of
pleasing appearance rang at the door of a small apartment on the third
floor of an old Roman house. On its being opened he enquired for Madame
Merle; whereupon the servant, a neat, plain woman, with a French face
and a lady's maid's manner, ushered him into a diminutive drawing-room
and requested the favour of his name. "Mr. Edward Rosier," said the
young man, who sat down to wait till his hostess should appear.
The reader will perhaps not have forgotten that Mr. Rosier was an
ornament of the American circle in Paris, but it may also be remembered
that he sometimes vanished from its horizon. He had spent a portion of
several winters at Pau, and as he was a gentleman of constituted habits
he might have continued for years to pay his annual visit to this
charming resort. In the summer of 1876, however, an incident befell him
which changed the current not only of his thoughts, but of his customary
sequences. He passed a month in the Upper Engadine and encountered at
Saint Moritz a charming young girl. To this little person he began to
pay, on the spot, particular attention: she struck him as exactly the
household angel he had long been looking for. He was never precipitate,
he was nothing if not discreet, so he forbore for the present to declare
his passion; but it seemed to him when they parted--the young lady to go
down into Italy and her admirer to proceed to Geneva, where he was under
bonds to join other friends--that he should be romantically wretched if
he were not to see her again. The simplest way to do so was to go in
the autumn to Rome, where Miss Osmond was domiciled with her family. Mr.
Rosier started on his pilgrimage to the Italian capital and reached it
on the first of November. It was a pleasant thing to do, but for the
young man there was a strain of the heroic in the enterprise. He might
expose himself, unseasoned, to the poison of the Roman air, which in
November lay, notoriously, much in wait. Fortune, however, favours the
brave; and this adventurer, who took three grains of quinine a day, had
at the end of a month no cause to deplore his temerity. He had made to
a certain extent good use of his time; he had devoted it in vain
to finding a flaw in Pansy Osmond's composition. She was admirably
finished; she had had the last touch; she was really a consummate piece.
He thought of her in amorous meditation a good deal as he might have
thought of a Dresden-china shepherdess. Miss Osmond, indeed, in the
bloom of her juvenility, had a hint of the rococo which Rosier, whose
taste was predominantly for that manner, could not fail to appreciate.
That he esteemed the productions of comparatively frivolous periods
would have been apparent from the attention he bestowed upon Madame
Merle's drawing-room, which, although furnished with specimens of every
style, was especially rich in articles of the last two centuries. He
had immediately put a glass into one eye and looked round; and then "By
Jove, she has some jolly good things!" he had yearningly murmured. The
room was small and densely filled with furniture; it gave an impression
of faded silk and little statuettes which might totter if one moved.
Rosier got up and wandered about with his careful tread, bending over
the tables charged with knick-knacks and the cushions embossed with
princely arms. When Madame Merle came in she found him standing before
the fireplace with his nose very close to the great lace flounce
attached to the damask cover of the mantel. He had lifted it delicately,
as if he were smelling it.
"It's old Venetian," she said; "it's rather good."
"It's too good for this; you ought to wear it."
"They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the same situation."
"Ah, but I can't wear mine," smiled the visitor.
"I don't see why you shouldn't! I've better lace than that to wear."
His eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again. "You've some very
good things."
"Yes, but I hate them."
"Do you want to get rid of them?" the young man quickly asked.
"No, it's good to have something to hate: one works it off!"
"I love my things," said Mr. Rosier as he sat there flushed with all his
recognitions. "But it's not about them, nor about yours, that I came
to talk to you." He paused a moment and then, with greater softness: "I
care more for Miss Osmond than for all the bibelots in Europe!"
Madame Merle opened wide eyes. "Did you come to tell me that?"
"I came to ask your advice."
She looked at him with a friendly frown, stroking her chin with her
large white hand. "A man in love, you know, doesn't ask advice."
"Why not, if he's in a difficult position? That's often the case with a
man in love. I've been in love before, and I know. But never so much as
this time--really never so much. I should like particularly to know what
you think of my prospects. I'm afraid that for Mr. Osmond I'm not--well,
a real collector's piece."
"Do you wish me to intercede?" Madame Merle asked with her fine arms
folded and her handsome mouth drawn up to the left.
"If you could say a good word for me I should be greatly obliged. There
will be no use in my troubling Miss Osmond unless I have good reason to
believe her father will consent."
"You're very considerate; that's in your favour. But you assume in
rather an off-hand way that I think you a prize."
"You've been very kind to me," said the young man. "That's why I came."
"I'm always kind to people who have good Louis Quatorze. It's very rare
now, and there's no telling what one may get by it." With which the
left-hand corner of Madame Merle's mouth gave expression to the joke.
But he looked, in spite of it, literally apprehensive and consistently
strenuous. "Ah, I thought you liked me for myself!"
"I like you very much; but, if you please, we won't analyse. Pardon me
if I seem patronising, but I think you a perfect little gentleman. I
must tell you, however, that I've not the marrying of Pansy Osmond."
"I didn't suppose that. But you've seemed to me intimate with her
family, and I thought you might have influence."
Madame Merle considered. "Whom do you call her family?"
"Why, her father; and--how do you say it in English?--her belle-mere."
"Mr. Osmond's her father, certainly; but his wife can scarcely be termed
a member of her family. Mrs. Osmond has nothing to do with marrying
her."
"I'm sorry for that," said Rosier with an amiable sigh of good faith. "I
think Mrs. Osmond would favour me."
"Very likely--if her husband doesn't."
He raised his eyebrows. "Does she take the opposite line from him?"
"In everything. They think quite differently."
"Well," said Rosier, "I'm sorry for that; but it's none of my business.
She's very fond of Pansy."
"Yes, she's very fond of Pansy."
"And Pansy has a great affection for her. She has told me how she loves
her as if she were her own mother."
"You must, after all, have had some very intimate talk with the poor
child," said Madame Merle. "Have you declared your sentiments?"
"Never!" cried Rosier, lifting his neatly-gloved hand. "Never till I've
assured myself of those of the parents."
"You always wait for that? You've excellent principles; you observe the
proprieties."
"I think you're laughing at me," the young man murmured, dropping back
in his chair and feeling his small moustache. "I didn't expect that of
you, Madame Merle."
She shook her head calmly, like a person who saw things as she saw them.
"You don't do me justice. I think your conduct in excellent taste and
the best you could adopt. Yes, that's what I think."
"I wouldn't agitate her--only to agitate her; I love her too much for
that," said Ned Rosier.
"I'm glad, after all, that you've told me," Madame Merle went on. "Leave
it to me a little; I think I can help you."
"I said you were the person to come to!" her visitor cried with prompt
elation.
"You were very clever," Madame Merle returned more dryly. "When I say I
can help you I mean once assuming your cause to be good. Let us think a
little if it is."
"I'm awfully decent, you know," said Rosier earnestly. "I won't say I've
no faults, but I'll say I've no vices."
"All that's negative, and it always depends, also, on what people call
vices. What's the positive side? What's the virtuous? What have you got
besides your Spanish lace and your Dresden teacups?"
"I've a comfortable little fortune--about forty thousand francs a year.
With the talent I have for arranging, we can live beautifully on such an
income."
"Beautifully, no. Sufficiently, yes. Even that depends on where you
live."
"Well, in Paris. I would undertake it in Paris."
Madame Merle's mouth rose to the left. "It wouldn't be famous; you'd
have to make use of the teacups, and they'd get broken."
"We don't want to be famous. If Miss Osmond should have everything
pretty it would be enough. When one's as pretty as she one can
afford--well, quite cheap faience. She ought never to wear anything but
muslin--without the sprig," said Rosier reflectively.
"Wouldn't you even allow her the sprig? She'd be much obliged to you at
any rate for that theory."
"It's the correct one, I assure you; and I'm sure she'd enter into it.
She understands all that; that's why I love her."
"She's a very good little girl, and most tidy--also extremely graceful.
But her father, to the best of my belief, can give her nothing."
Rosier scarce demurred. "I don't in the least desire that he should. But
I may remark, all the same, that he lives like a rich man."
"The money's his wife's; she brought him a large fortune."
"Mrs. Osmond then is very fond of her stepdaughter; she may do
something."
"For a love-sick swain you have your eyes about you!" Madame Merle
exclaimed with a laugh.
"I esteem a dot very much. I can do without it, but I esteem it."
"Mrs. Osmond," Madame Merle went on, "will probably prefer to keep her
money for her own children."
"Her own children? Surely she has none."
"She may have yet. She had a poor little boy, who died two years ago,
six months after his birth. Others therefore may come."
"I hope they will, if it will make her happy. She's a splendid woman."
Madame Merle failed to burst into speech. "Ah, about her there's much to
be said. Splendid as you like! We've not exactly made out that you're a
parti. The absence of vices is hardly a source of income.
"Pardon me, I think it may be," said Rosier quite lucidly.
"You'll be a touching couple, living on your innocence!"
"I think you underrate me."
"You're not so innocent as that? Seriously," said Madame Merle,
"of course forty thousand francs a year and a nice character are a
combination to be considered. I don't say it's to be jumped at, but
there might be a worse offer. Mr. Osmond, however, will probably incline
to believe he can do better."
"HE can do so perhaps; but what can his daughter do? She can't do better
than marry the man she loves. For she does, you know," Rosier added
eagerly.
"She does--I know it."
"Ah," cried the young man, "I said you were the person to come to."
"But I don't know how you know it, if you haven't asked her," Madame
Merle went on.
"In such a case there's no need of asking and telling; as you say, we're
an innocent couple. How did YOU know it?"
"I who am not innocent? By being very crafty. Leave it to me; I'll find
out for you."
Rosier got up and stood smoothing his hat. "You say that rather coldly.
Don't simply find out how it is, but try to make it as it should be."
"I'll do my best. I'll try to make the most of your advantages."
"Thank you so very much. Meanwhile then I'll say a word to Mrs. Osmond."
"Gardez-vous-en bien!" And Madame Merle was on her feet. "Don't set her
going, or you'll spoil everything."
Rosier gazed into his hat; he wondered whether his hostess HAD been
after all the right person to come to. "I don't think I understand
you. I'm an old friend of Mrs. Osmond, and I think she would like me to
succeed."
"Be an old friend as much as you like; the more old friends she has the
better, for she doesn't get on very well with some of her new. But don't
for the present try to make her take up the cudgels for you. Her husband
may have other views, and, as a person who wishes her well, I advise you
not to multiply points of difference between them."
Poor Rosier's face assumed an expression of alarm; a suit for the hand
of Pansy Osmond was even a more complicated business than his taste
for proper transitions had allowed. But the extreme good sense which
he concealed under a surface suggesting that of a careful owner's "best
set" came to his assistance. "I don't see that I'm bound to consider Mr.
Osmond so very much!" he exclaimed. "No, but you should consider HER.
You say you're an old friend. Would you make her suffer?"
"Not for the world."
"Then be very careful, and let the matter alone till I've taken a few
soundings."
"Let the matter alone, dear Madame Merle? Remember that I'm in love."
"Oh, you won't burn up! Why did you come to me, if you're not to heed
what I say?"
"You're very kind; I'll be very good," the young man promised. "But I'm
afraid Mr. Osmond's pretty hard," he added in his mild voice as he went
to the door.
Madame Merle gave a short laugh. "It has been said before. But his wife
isn't easy either."
"Ah, she's a splendid woman!" Ned Rosier repeated, for departure.
He resolved that his conduct should be worthy of an aspirant who was
already a model of discretion; but he saw nothing in any pledge he
had given Madame Merle that made it improper he should keep himself
in spirits by an occasional visit to Miss Osmond's home. He reflected
constantly on what his adviser had said to him, and turned over in his
mind the impression of her rather circumspect tone. He had gone to her
de confiance, as they put it in Paris; but it was possible he had been
precipitate. He found difficulty in thinking of himself as rash--he had
incurred this reproach so rarely; but it certainly was true that he had
known Madame Merle only for the last month, and that his thinking her
a delightful woman was not, when one came to look into it, a reason for
assuming that she would be eager to push Pansy Osmond into his arms,
gracefully arranged as these members might be to receive her. She had
indeed shown him benevolence, and she was a person of consideration
among the girl's people, where she had a rather striking appearance
(Rosier had more than once wondered how she managed it) of being
intimate without being familiar. But possibly he had exaggerated these
advantages. There was no particular reason why she should take trouble
for him; a charming woman was charming to every one, and Rosier felt
rather a fool when he thought of his having appealed to her on the
ground that she had distinguished him. Very likely--though she had
appeared to say it in joke--she was really only thinking of his
bibelots. Had it come into her head that he might offer her two or three
of the gems of his collection? If she would only help him to marry Miss
Osmond he would present her with his whole museum. He could hardly say
so to her outright; it would seem too gross a bribe. But he should like
her to believe it.
It was with these thoughts that he went again to Mrs. Osmond's,
Mrs. Osmond having an "evening"--she had taken the Thursday of each
week--when his presence could be accounted for on general principles of
civility. The object of Mr. Rosier's well-regulated affection dwelt in
a high house in the very heart of Rome; a dark and massive structure
overlooking a sunny piazzetta in the neighbourhood of the Farnese
Palace. In a palace, too, little Pansy lived--a palace by Roman measure,
but a dungeon to poor Rosier's apprehensive mind. It seemed to him of
evil omen that the young lady he wished to marry, and whose fastidious
father he doubted of his ability to conciliate, should be immured in
a kind of domestic fortress, a pile which bore a stern old Roman name,
which smelt of historic deeds, of crime and craft and violence, which
was mentioned in "Murray" and visited by tourists who looked, on a vague
survey, disappointed and depressed, and which had frescoes by Caravaggio
in the piano nobile and a row of mutilated statues and dusty urns in the
wide, nobly-arched loggia overhanging the damp court where a fountain
gushed out of a mossy niche. In a less preoccupied frame of mind he
could have done justice to the Palazzo Roccanera; he could have entered
into the sentiment of Mrs. Osmond, who had once told him that on
settling themselves in Rome she and her husband had chosen this
habitation for the love of local colour. It had local colour enough,
and though he knew less about architecture than about Limoges enamels
he could see that the proportions of the windows and even the details
of the cornice had quite the grand air. But Rosier was haunted by the
conviction that at picturesque periods young girls had been shut up
there to keep them from their true loves, and then, under the threat of
being thrown into convents, had been forced into unholy marriages. There
was one point, however, to which he always did justice when once he
found himself in Mrs. Osmond's warm, rich-looking reception-rooms, which
were on the second floor. He acknowledged that these people were very
strong in "good things." It was a taste of Osmond's own--not at all of
hers; this she had told him the first time he came to the house, when,
after asking himself for a quarter of an hour whether they had even
better "French" than he in Paris, he was obliged on the spot to admit
that they had, very much, and vanquished his envy, as a gentleman
should, to the point of expressing to his hostess his pure admiration of
her treasures. He learned from Mrs. Osmond that her husband had made a
large collection before their marriage and that, though he had annexed
a number of fine pieces within the last three years, he had achieved his
greatest finds at a time when he had not the advantage of her advice.
Rosier interpreted this information according to principles of his own.
For "advice" read "cash," he said to himself; and the fact that Gilbert
Osmond had landed his highest prizes during his impecunious season
confirmed his most cherished doctrine--the doctrine that a collector may
freely be poor if he be only patient. In general, when Rosier presented
himself on a Thursday evening, his first recognition was for the walls
of the saloon; there were three or four objects his eyes really
yearned for. But after his talk with Madame Merle he felt the extreme
seriousness of his position; and now, when he came in, he looked about
for the daughter of the house with such eagerness as might be permitted
a gentleman whose smile, as he crossed a threshold, always took
everything comfortable for granted.
| In the autumn of 1876, Edward Rosier visits Madame Merle. The reader will remember that Edward Rosier had met Isabel's acquaintance briefly in Paris. He was part of the American circle there. He is visiting Madame Merle because he had met Pansy in Saint Moritz, where he fell in love with her. He knows Madame Merle is close with the family and wants her to advise him. He thinks of Pansy as "admirably finished," a "consummate piece". It will be remembered that Edward Rosier is quite a collector. He immediately appreciates all of Madame Merle's fine things as he waits for her to greet him. He declares to Madame Merle that he cares more for Pansy Osmond than "all the bibelots in Europe. He has come to ask for advice, and to be counseled on his prospects as a suitor for Pansy. Madame Merle agrees to help him, although she asks him what else he has to offer in marriage. He tells her he has a fortune of forty thousand francs a year. Merle thinks one might live sufficiently on such a sum, but not beautifully. She mentions that Pansy will bring little to a marriage, and that she does not think that Isabel will give her a dowry. Merle makes fun of Edward Rosier a bit, for being naive about money. We learn that Isabel and Osmond do not yet have children, and that they have opposite opinions in everything. Merle thinks that Osmond will be inclined to think he can do better for Pansy. Rosier thinks though that Pansy is in love with him. Madame Merle points out that he does not know this - he has not asked Pansy. Merle says she will find out for him though. He wants to speak to Isabel as well about the matter, but Merle cautions him that this would set Osmond against him. Edward Rosier nevertheless goes to see Isabel, realizing that there is no real reason that Madame Merle would really help him. Pansy is now living in a massive structure in the heart of Rome with Isabel and Osmond. Mr. Rosier thinks of this house as an evil omen, a dungeon. He thought of the palace as fully of Osmond's own taste, and not at all of Isabel's. He had learned from Isabel that her husband had added a lot to his collection after their marriage. Rosier thinks of Osmond as a good collector - he had been patient in marriage, and thus had landed the great prizes once he had finally married. Edward Rosier goes to visit Isabel who is now Mrs. Osmond | summary |
One afternoon of the autumn of 1876, toward dusk, a young man of
pleasing appearance rang at the door of a small apartment on the third
floor of an old Roman house. On its being opened he enquired for Madame
Merle; whereupon the servant, a neat, plain woman, with a French face
and a lady's maid's manner, ushered him into a diminutive drawing-room
and requested the favour of his name. "Mr. Edward Rosier," said the
young man, who sat down to wait till his hostess should appear.
The reader will perhaps not have forgotten that Mr. Rosier was an
ornament of the American circle in Paris, but it may also be remembered
that he sometimes vanished from its horizon. He had spent a portion of
several winters at Pau, and as he was a gentleman of constituted habits
he might have continued for years to pay his annual visit to this
charming resort. In the summer of 1876, however, an incident befell him
which changed the current not only of his thoughts, but of his customary
sequences. He passed a month in the Upper Engadine and encountered at
Saint Moritz a charming young girl. To this little person he began to
pay, on the spot, particular attention: she struck him as exactly the
household angel he had long been looking for. He was never precipitate,
he was nothing if not discreet, so he forbore for the present to declare
his passion; but it seemed to him when they parted--the young lady to go
down into Italy and her admirer to proceed to Geneva, where he was under
bonds to join other friends--that he should be romantically wretched if
he were not to see her again. The simplest way to do so was to go in
the autumn to Rome, where Miss Osmond was domiciled with her family. Mr.
Rosier started on his pilgrimage to the Italian capital and reached it
on the first of November. It was a pleasant thing to do, but for the
young man there was a strain of the heroic in the enterprise. He might
expose himself, unseasoned, to the poison of the Roman air, which in
November lay, notoriously, much in wait. Fortune, however, favours the
brave; and this adventurer, who took three grains of quinine a day, had
at the end of a month no cause to deplore his temerity. He had made to
a certain extent good use of his time; he had devoted it in vain
to finding a flaw in Pansy Osmond's composition. She was admirably
finished; she had had the last touch; she was really a consummate piece.
He thought of her in amorous meditation a good deal as he might have
thought of a Dresden-china shepherdess. Miss Osmond, indeed, in the
bloom of her juvenility, had a hint of the rococo which Rosier, whose
taste was predominantly for that manner, could not fail to appreciate.
That he esteemed the productions of comparatively frivolous periods
would have been apparent from the attention he bestowed upon Madame
Merle's drawing-room, which, although furnished with specimens of every
style, was especially rich in articles of the last two centuries. He
had immediately put a glass into one eye and looked round; and then "By
Jove, she has some jolly good things!" he had yearningly murmured. The
room was small and densely filled with furniture; it gave an impression
of faded silk and little statuettes which might totter if one moved.
Rosier got up and wandered about with his careful tread, bending over
the tables charged with knick-knacks and the cushions embossed with
princely arms. When Madame Merle came in she found him standing before
the fireplace with his nose very close to the great lace flounce
attached to the damask cover of the mantel. He had lifted it delicately,
as if he were smelling it.
"It's old Venetian," she said; "it's rather good."
"It's too good for this; you ought to wear it."
"They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the same situation."
"Ah, but I can't wear mine," smiled the visitor.
"I don't see why you shouldn't! I've better lace than that to wear."
His eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again. "You've some very
good things."
"Yes, but I hate them."
"Do you want to get rid of them?" the young man quickly asked.
"No, it's good to have something to hate: one works it off!"
"I love my things," said Mr. Rosier as he sat there flushed with all his
recognitions. "But it's not about them, nor about yours, that I came
to talk to you." He paused a moment and then, with greater softness: "I
care more for Miss Osmond than for all the bibelots in Europe!"
Madame Merle opened wide eyes. "Did you come to tell me that?"
"I came to ask your advice."
She looked at him with a friendly frown, stroking her chin with her
large white hand. "A man in love, you know, doesn't ask advice."
"Why not, if he's in a difficult position? That's often the case with a
man in love. I've been in love before, and I know. But never so much as
this time--really never so much. I should like particularly to know what
you think of my prospects. I'm afraid that for Mr. Osmond I'm not--well,
a real collector's piece."
"Do you wish me to intercede?" Madame Merle asked with her fine arms
folded and her handsome mouth drawn up to the left.
"If you could say a good word for me I should be greatly obliged. There
will be no use in my troubling Miss Osmond unless I have good reason to
believe her father will consent."
"You're very considerate; that's in your favour. But you assume in
rather an off-hand way that I think you a prize."
"You've been very kind to me," said the young man. "That's why I came."
"I'm always kind to people who have good Louis Quatorze. It's very rare
now, and there's no telling what one may get by it." With which the
left-hand corner of Madame Merle's mouth gave expression to the joke.
But he looked, in spite of it, literally apprehensive and consistently
strenuous. "Ah, I thought you liked me for myself!"
"I like you very much; but, if you please, we won't analyse. Pardon me
if I seem patronising, but I think you a perfect little gentleman. I
must tell you, however, that I've not the marrying of Pansy Osmond."
"I didn't suppose that. But you've seemed to me intimate with her
family, and I thought you might have influence."
Madame Merle considered. "Whom do you call her family?"
"Why, her father; and--how do you say it in English?--her belle-mere."
"Mr. Osmond's her father, certainly; but his wife can scarcely be termed
a member of her family. Mrs. Osmond has nothing to do with marrying
her."
"I'm sorry for that," said Rosier with an amiable sigh of good faith. "I
think Mrs. Osmond would favour me."
"Very likely--if her husband doesn't."
He raised his eyebrows. "Does she take the opposite line from him?"
"In everything. They think quite differently."
"Well," said Rosier, "I'm sorry for that; but it's none of my business.
She's very fond of Pansy."
"Yes, she's very fond of Pansy."
"And Pansy has a great affection for her. She has told me how she loves
her as if she were her own mother."
"You must, after all, have had some very intimate talk with the poor
child," said Madame Merle. "Have you declared your sentiments?"
"Never!" cried Rosier, lifting his neatly-gloved hand. "Never till I've
assured myself of those of the parents."
"You always wait for that? You've excellent principles; you observe the
proprieties."
"I think you're laughing at me," the young man murmured, dropping back
in his chair and feeling his small moustache. "I didn't expect that of
you, Madame Merle."
She shook her head calmly, like a person who saw things as she saw them.
"You don't do me justice. I think your conduct in excellent taste and
the best you could adopt. Yes, that's what I think."
"I wouldn't agitate her--only to agitate her; I love her too much for
that," said Ned Rosier.
"I'm glad, after all, that you've told me," Madame Merle went on. "Leave
it to me a little; I think I can help you."
"I said you were the person to come to!" her visitor cried with prompt
elation.
"You were very clever," Madame Merle returned more dryly. "When I say I
can help you I mean once assuming your cause to be good. Let us think a
little if it is."
"I'm awfully decent, you know," said Rosier earnestly. "I won't say I've
no faults, but I'll say I've no vices."
"All that's negative, and it always depends, also, on what people call
vices. What's the positive side? What's the virtuous? What have you got
besides your Spanish lace and your Dresden teacups?"
"I've a comfortable little fortune--about forty thousand francs a year.
With the talent I have for arranging, we can live beautifully on such an
income."
"Beautifully, no. Sufficiently, yes. Even that depends on where you
live."
"Well, in Paris. I would undertake it in Paris."
Madame Merle's mouth rose to the left. "It wouldn't be famous; you'd
have to make use of the teacups, and they'd get broken."
"We don't want to be famous. If Miss Osmond should have everything
pretty it would be enough. When one's as pretty as she one can
afford--well, quite cheap faience. She ought never to wear anything but
muslin--without the sprig," said Rosier reflectively.
"Wouldn't you even allow her the sprig? She'd be much obliged to you at
any rate for that theory."
"It's the correct one, I assure you; and I'm sure she'd enter into it.
She understands all that; that's why I love her."
"She's a very good little girl, and most tidy--also extremely graceful.
But her father, to the best of my belief, can give her nothing."
Rosier scarce demurred. "I don't in the least desire that he should. But
I may remark, all the same, that he lives like a rich man."
"The money's his wife's; she brought him a large fortune."
"Mrs. Osmond then is very fond of her stepdaughter; she may do
something."
"For a love-sick swain you have your eyes about you!" Madame Merle
exclaimed with a laugh.
"I esteem a dot very much. I can do without it, but I esteem it."
"Mrs. Osmond," Madame Merle went on, "will probably prefer to keep her
money for her own children."
"Her own children? Surely she has none."
"She may have yet. She had a poor little boy, who died two years ago,
six months after his birth. Others therefore may come."
"I hope they will, if it will make her happy. She's a splendid woman."
Madame Merle failed to burst into speech. "Ah, about her there's much to
be said. Splendid as you like! We've not exactly made out that you're a
parti. The absence of vices is hardly a source of income.
"Pardon me, I think it may be," said Rosier quite lucidly.
"You'll be a touching couple, living on your innocence!"
"I think you underrate me."
"You're not so innocent as that? Seriously," said Madame Merle,
"of course forty thousand francs a year and a nice character are a
combination to be considered. I don't say it's to be jumped at, but
there might be a worse offer. Mr. Osmond, however, will probably incline
to believe he can do better."
"HE can do so perhaps; but what can his daughter do? She can't do better
than marry the man she loves. For she does, you know," Rosier added
eagerly.
"She does--I know it."
"Ah," cried the young man, "I said you were the person to come to."
"But I don't know how you know it, if you haven't asked her," Madame
Merle went on.
"In such a case there's no need of asking and telling; as you say, we're
an innocent couple. How did YOU know it?"
"I who am not innocent? By being very crafty. Leave it to me; I'll find
out for you."
Rosier got up and stood smoothing his hat. "You say that rather coldly.
Don't simply find out how it is, but try to make it as it should be."
"I'll do my best. I'll try to make the most of your advantages."
"Thank you so very much. Meanwhile then I'll say a word to Mrs. Osmond."
"Gardez-vous-en bien!" And Madame Merle was on her feet. "Don't set her
going, or you'll spoil everything."
Rosier gazed into his hat; he wondered whether his hostess HAD been
after all the right person to come to. "I don't think I understand
you. I'm an old friend of Mrs. Osmond, and I think she would like me to
succeed."
"Be an old friend as much as you like; the more old friends she has the
better, for she doesn't get on very well with some of her new. But don't
for the present try to make her take up the cudgels for you. Her husband
may have other views, and, as a person who wishes her well, I advise you
not to multiply points of difference between them."
Poor Rosier's face assumed an expression of alarm; a suit for the hand
of Pansy Osmond was even a more complicated business than his taste
for proper transitions had allowed. But the extreme good sense which
he concealed under a surface suggesting that of a careful owner's "best
set" came to his assistance. "I don't see that I'm bound to consider Mr.
Osmond so very much!" he exclaimed. "No, but you should consider HER.
You say you're an old friend. Would you make her suffer?"
"Not for the world."
"Then be very careful, and let the matter alone till I've taken a few
soundings."
"Let the matter alone, dear Madame Merle? Remember that I'm in love."
"Oh, you won't burn up! Why did you come to me, if you're not to heed
what I say?"
"You're very kind; I'll be very good," the young man promised. "But I'm
afraid Mr. Osmond's pretty hard," he added in his mild voice as he went
to the door.
Madame Merle gave a short laugh. "It has been said before. But his wife
isn't easy either."
"Ah, she's a splendid woman!" Ned Rosier repeated, for departure.
He resolved that his conduct should be worthy of an aspirant who was
already a model of discretion; but he saw nothing in any pledge he
had given Madame Merle that made it improper he should keep himself
in spirits by an occasional visit to Miss Osmond's home. He reflected
constantly on what his adviser had said to him, and turned over in his
mind the impression of her rather circumspect tone. He had gone to her
de confiance, as they put it in Paris; but it was possible he had been
precipitate. He found difficulty in thinking of himself as rash--he had
incurred this reproach so rarely; but it certainly was true that he had
known Madame Merle only for the last month, and that his thinking her
a delightful woman was not, when one came to look into it, a reason for
assuming that she would be eager to push Pansy Osmond into his arms,
gracefully arranged as these members might be to receive her. She had
indeed shown him benevolence, and she was a person of consideration
among the girl's people, where she had a rather striking appearance
(Rosier had more than once wondered how she managed it) of being
intimate without being familiar. But possibly he had exaggerated these
advantages. There was no particular reason why she should take trouble
for him; a charming woman was charming to every one, and Rosier felt
rather a fool when he thought of his having appealed to her on the
ground that she had distinguished him. Very likely--though she had
appeared to say it in joke--she was really only thinking of his
bibelots. Had it come into her head that he might offer her two or three
of the gems of his collection? If she would only help him to marry Miss
Osmond he would present her with his whole museum. He could hardly say
so to her outright; it would seem too gross a bribe. But he should like
her to believe it.
It was with these thoughts that he went again to Mrs. Osmond's,
Mrs. Osmond having an "evening"--she had taken the Thursday of each
week--when his presence could be accounted for on general principles of
civility. The object of Mr. Rosier's well-regulated affection dwelt in
a high house in the very heart of Rome; a dark and massive structure
overlooking a sunny piazzetta in the neighbourhood of the Farnese
Palace. In a palace, too, little Pansy lived--a palace by Roman measure,
but a dungeon to poor Rosier's apprehensive mind. It seemed to him of
evil omen that the young lady he wished to marry, and whose fastidious
father he doubted of his ability to conciliate, should be immured in
a kind of domestic fortress, a pile which bore a stern old Roman name,
which smelt of historic deeds, of crime and craft and violence, which
was mentioned in "Murray" and visited by tourists who looked, on a vague
survey, disappointed and depressed, and which had frescoes by Caravaggio
in the piano nobile and a row of mutilated statues and dusty urns in the
wide, nobly-arched loggia overhanging the damp court where a fountain
gushed out of a mossy niche. In a less preoccupied frame of mind he
could have done justice to the Palazzo Roccanera; he could have entered
into the sentiment of Mrs. Osmond, who had once told him that on
settling themselves in Rome she and her husband had chosen this
habitation for the love of local colour. It had local colour enough,
and though he knew less about architecture than about Limoges enamels
he could see that the proportions of the windows and even the details
of the cornice had quite the grand air. But Rosier was haunted by the
conviction that at picturesque periods young girls had been shut up
there to keep them from their true loves, and then, under the threat of
being thrown into convents, had been forced into unholy marriages. There
was one point, however, to which he always did justice when once he
found himself in Mrs. Osmond's warm, rich-looking reception-rooms, which
were on the second floor. He acknowledged that these people were very
strong in "good things." It was a taste of Osmond's own--not at all of
hers; this she had told him the first time he came to the house, when,
after asking himself for a quarter of an hour whether they had even
better "French" than he in Paris, he was obliged on the spot to admit
that they had, very much, and vanquished his envy, as a gentleman
should, to the point of expressing to his hostess his pure admiration of
her treasures. He learned from Mrs. Osmond that her husband had made a
large collection before their marriage and that, though he had annexed
a number of fine pieces within the last three years, he had achieved his
greatest finds at a time when he had not the advantage of her advice.
Rosier interpreted this information according to principles of his own.
For "advice" read "cash," he said to himself; and the fact that Gilbert
Osmond had landed his highest prizes during his impecunious season
confirmed his most cherished doctrine--the doctrine that a collector may
freely be poor if he be only patient. In general, when Rosier presented
himself on a Thursday evening, his first recognition was for the walls
of the saloon; there were three or four objects his eyes really
yearned for. But after his talk with Madame Merle he felt the extreme
seriousness of his position; and now, when he came in, he looked about
for the daughter of the house with such eagerness as might be permitted
a gentleman whose smile, as he crossed a threshold, always took
everything comfortable for granted.
| Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the "ficelle" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, "Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a "representative" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an "intrinsic value" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from "using" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of "intrinsic value" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon? | analysis |
Pansy was not in the first of the rooms, a large apartment with a
concave ceiling and walls covered with old red damask; it was here
Mrs. Osmond usually sat--though she was not in her most customary place
to-night--and that a circle of more especial intimates gathered about
the fire. The room was flushed with subdued, diffused brightness; it
contained the larger things and--almost always--an odour of flowers.
Pansy on this occasion was presumably in the next of the series, the
resort of younger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood before
the chimney, leaning back with his hands behind him; he had one foot up
and was warming the sole. Half a dozen persons, scattered near him, were
talking together; but he was not in the conversation; his eyes had an
expression, frequent with them, that seemed to represent them as engaged
with objects more worth their while than the appearances actually
thrust upon them. Rosier, coming in unannounced, failed to attract his
attention; but the young man, who was very punctilious, though he was
even exceptionally conscious that it was the wife, not the husband, he
had come to see, went up to shake hands with him. Osmond put out his
left hand, without changing his attitude.
"How d'ye do? My wife's somewhere about."
"Never fear; I shall find her," said Rosier cheerfully.
Osmond, however, took him in; he had never in his life felt himself so
efficiently looked at. "Madame Merle has told him, and he doesn't like
it," he privately reasoned. He had hoped Madame Merle would be there,
but she was not in sight; perhaps she was in one of the other rooms or
would come later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond,
having a fancy he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quickly
resentful, and where politeness was concerned had ever a strong need of
being quite in the right. He looked round him and smiled, all without
help, and then in a moment, "I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monte
to-day," he said.
Osmond answered nothing at first; but presently, while he warmed his
boot-sole, "I don't care a fig for Capo di Monte!" he returned.
"I hope you're not losing your interest?"
"In old pots and plates? Yes, I'm losing my interest."
Rosier for an instant forgot the delicacy of his position. "You're not
thinking of parting with a--a piece or two?"
"No, I'm not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr. Rosier," said
Osmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his visitor.
"Ah, you want to keep, but not to add," Rosier remarked brightly.
"Exactly. I've nothing I wish to match."
Poor Rosier was aware he had blushed; he was distressed at his want of
assurance. "Ah, well, I have!" was all he could murmur; and he knew
his murmur was partly lost as he turned away. He took his course to the
adjoining room and met Mrs. Osmond coming out of the deep doorway. She
was dressed in black velvet; she looked high and splendid, as he had
said, and yet oh so radiantly gentle! We know what Mr. Rosier thought
of her and the terms in which, to Madame Merle, he had expressed his
admiration. Like his appreciation of her dear little stepdaughter it
was based partly on his eye for decorative character, his instinct for
authenticity; but also on a sense for uncatalogued values, for that
secret of a "lustre" beyond any recorded losing or rediscovering,
which his devotion to brittle wares had still not disqualified him
to recognise. Mrs. Osmond, at present, might well have gratified such
tastes. The years had touched her only to enrich her; the flower of her
youth had not faded, it only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lost
something of that quick eagerness to which her husband had privately
taken exception--she had more the air of being able to wait. Now, at all
events, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck our young man as the
picture of a gracious lady. "You see I'm very regular," he said. "But
who should be if I'm not?"
"Yes, I've known you longer than any one here. But we mustn't indulge in
tender reminiscences. I want to introduce you to a young lady."
"Ah, please, what young lady?" Rosier was immensely obliging; but this
was not what he had come for.
"She sits there by the fire in pink and has no one to speak to." Rosier
hesitated a moment. "Can't Mr. Osmond speak to her? He's within six feet
of her."
Mrs. Osmond also hesitated. "She's not very lively, and he doesn't like
dull people."
"But she's good enough for me? Ah now, that's hard!"
"I only mean that you've ideas for two. And then you're so obliging."
"No, he's not--to me." And Mrs. Osmond vaguely smiled.
"That's a sign he should be doubly so to other women.
"So I tell him," she said, still smiling.
"You see I want some tea," Rosier went on, looking wistfully beyond.
"That's perfect. Go and give some to my young lady."
"Very good; but after that I'll abandon her to her fate. The simple
truth is I'm dying to have a little talk with Miss Osmond."
"Ah," said Isabel, turning away, "I can't help you there!"
Five minutes later, while he handed a tea-cup to the damsel in pink,
whom he had conducted into the other room, he wondered whether, in
making to Mrs. Osmond the profession I have just quoted, he had broken
the spirit of his promise to Madame Merle. Such a question was capable
of occupying this young man's mind for a considerable time. At last,
however, he became--comparatively speaking--reckless; he cared little
what promises he might break. The fate to which he had threatened to
abandon the damsel in pink proved to be none so terrible; for Pansy
Osmond, who had given him the tea for his companion--Pansy was as fond
as ever of making tea--presently came and talked to her. Into this mild
colloquy Edward Rosier entered little; he sat by moodily, watching his
small sweetheart. If we look at her now through his eyes we shall at
first not see much to remind us of the obedient little girl who, at
Florence, three years before, was sent to walk short distances in the
Cascine while her father and Miss Archer talked together of matters
sacred to elder people. But after a moment we shall perceive that if at
nineteen Pansy has become a young lady she doesn't really fill out the
part; that if she has grown very pretty she lacks in a deplorable degree
the quality known and esteemed in the appearance of females as style;
and that if she is dressed with great freshness she wears her smart
attire with an undisguised appearance of saving it--very much as if it
were lent her for the occasion. Edward Rosier, it would seem, would have
been just the man to note these defects; and in point of fact there was
not a quality of this young lady, of any sort, that he had not noted.
Only he called her qualities by names of his own--some of which indeed
were happy enough. "No, she's unique--she's absolutely unique," he used
to say to himself; and you may be sure that not for an instant would he
have admitted to you that she was wanting in style. Style? Why, she had
the style of a little princess; if you couldn't see it you had no eye.
It was not modern, it was not conscious, it would produce no impression
in Broadway; the small, serious damsel, in her stiff little dress, only
looked like an Infanta of Velasquez. This was enough for Edward Rosier,
who thought her delightfully old-fashioned. Her anxious eyes, her
charming lips, her slip of a figure, were as touching as a childish
prayer. He had now an acute desire to know just to what point she liked
him--a desire which made him fidget as he sat in his chair. It made him
feel hot, so that he had to pat his forehead with his handkerchief; he
had never been so uncomfortable. She was such a perfect jeune fille, and
one couldn't make of a jeune fille the enquiry requisite for throwing
light on such a point. A jeune fille was what Rosier had always dreamed
of--a jeune fille who should yet not be French, for he had felt that
this nationality would complicate the question. He was sure Pansy had
never looked at a newspaper and that, in the way of novels, if she
had read Sir Walter Scott it was the very most. An American jeune
fille--what could be better than that? She would be frank and gay, and
yet would not have walked alone, nor have received letters from men,
nor have been taken to the theatre to see the comedy of manners. Rosier
could not deny that, as the matter stood, it would be a breach of
hospitality to appeal directly to this unsophisticated creature; but
he was now in imminent danger of asking himself if hospitality were
the most sacred thing in the world. Was not the sentiment that he
entertained for Miss Osmond of infinitely greater importance? Of greater
importance to him--yes; but not probably to the master of the house.
There was one comfort; even if this gentleman had been placed on his
guard by Madame Merle he would not have extended the warning to Pansy;
it would not have been part of his policy to let her know that a
prepossessing young man was in love with her. But he WAS in love
with her, the prepossessing young man; and all these restrictions of
circumstance had ended by irritating him. What had Gilbert Osmond meant
by giving him two fingers of his left hand? If Osmond was rude, surely
he himself might be bold. He felt extremely bold after the dull girl
in so vain a disguise of rose-colour had responded to the call of her
mother, who came in to say, with a significant simper at Rosier, that
she must carry her off to other triumphs. The mother and daughter
departed together, and now it depended only upon him that he should be
virtually alone with Pansy. He had never been alone with her before;
he had never been alone with a jeune fille. It was a great moment; poor
Rosier began to pat his forehead again. There was another room beyond
the one in which they stood--a small room that had been thrown open and
lighted, but that, the company not being numerous, had remained empty
all the evening. It was empty yet; it was upholstered in pale yellow;
there were several lamps; through the open door it looked the very
temple of authorised love. Rosier gazed a moment through this aperture;
he was afraid that Pansy would run away, and felt almost capable of
stretching out a hand to detain her. But she lingered where the other
maiden had left them, making no motion to join a knot of visitors on
the far side of the room. For a little it occurred to him that she was
frightened--too frightened perhaps to move; but a second glance assured
him she was not, and he then reflected that she was too innocent indeed
for that. After a supreme hesitation he asked her if he might go and
look at the yellow room, which seemed so attractive yet so virginal. He
had been there already with Osmond, to inspect the furniture, which was
of the First French Empire, and especially to admire the clock (which he
didn't really admire), an immense classic structure of that period. He
therefore felt that he had now begun to manoeuvre.
"Certainly, you may go," said Pansy; "and if you like I'll show you."
She was not in the least frightened.
"That's just what I hoped you'd say; you're so very kind," Rosier
murmured.
They went in together; Rosier really thought the room very ugly, and it
seemed cold. The same idea appeared to have struck Pansy. "It's not for
winter evenings; it's more for summer," she said. "It's papa's taste; he
has so much."
He had a good deal, Rosier thought; but some of it was very bad. He
looked about him; he hardly knew what to say in such a situation.
"Doesn't Mrs. Osmond care how her rooms are done? Has she no taste?" he
asked.
"Oh yes, a great deal; but it's more for literature," said Pansy--"and
for conversation. But papa cares also for those things. I think he knows
everything."
Rosier was silent a little. "There's one thing I'm sure he knows!" he
broke out presently. "He knows that when I come here it's, with all
respect to him, with all respect to Mrs. Osmond, who's so charming--it's
really," said the young man, "to see you!"
"To see me?" And Pansy raised her vaguely troubled eyes.
"To see you; that's what I come for," Rosier repeated, feeling the
intoxication of a rupture with authority.
Pansy stood looking at him, simply, intently, openly; a blush was not
needed to make her face more modest. "I thought it was for that."
"And it was not disagreeable to you?"
"I couldn't tell; I didn't know. You never told me," said Pansy.
"I was afraid of offending you."
"You don't offend me," the young girl murmured, smiling as if an angel
had kissed her.
"You like me then, Pansy?" Rosier asked very gently, feeling very happy.
"Yes--I like you."
They had walked to the chimney-piece where the big cold Empire clock
was perched; they were well within the room and beyond observation from
without. The tone in which she had said these four words seemed to him
the very breath of nature, and his only answer could be to take her
hand and hold it a moment. Then he raised it to his lips. She submitted,
still with her pure, trusting smile, in which there was something
ineffably passive. She liked him--she had liked him all the while; now
anything might happen! She was ready--she had been ready always, waiting
for him to speak. If he had not spoken she would have waited for ever;
but when the word came she dropped like the peach from the shaken tree.
Rosier felt that if he should draw her toward him and hold her to his
heart she would submit without a murmur, would rest there without a
question. It was true that this would be a rash experiment in a yellow
Empire salottino. She had known it was for her he came, and yet like
what a perfect little lady she had carried it off!
"You're very dear to me," he murmured, trying to believe that there was
after all such a thing as hospitality.
She looked a moment at her hand, where he had kissed it. "Did you say
papa knows?"
"You told me just now he knows everything."
"I think you must make sure," said Pansy.
"Ah, my dear, when once I'm sure of YOU!" Rosier murmured in her ear;
whereupon she turned back to the other rooms with a little air of
consistency which seemed to imply that their appeal should be immediate.
The other rooms meanwhile had become conscious of the arrival of Madame
Merle, who, wherever she went, produced an impression when she entered.
How she did it the most attentive spectator could not have told you, for
she neither spoke loud, nor laughed profusely, nor moved rapidly, nor
dressed with splendour, nor appealed in any appreciable manner to the
audience. Large, fair, smiling, serene, there was something in her very
tranquillity that diffused itself, and when people looked round it was
because of a sudden quiet. On this occasion she had done the quietest
thing she could do; after embracing Mrs. Osmond, which was more
striking, she had sat down on a small sofa to commune with the master
of the house. There was a brief exchange of commonplaces between these
two--they always paid, in public, a certain formal tribute to the
commonplace--and then Madame Merle, whose eyes had been wandering, asked
if little Mr. Rosier had come this evening.
"He came nearly an hour ago--but he has disappeared," Osmond said.
"And where's Pansy?"
"In the other room. There are several people there."
"He's probably among them," said Madame Merle.
"Do you wish to see him?" Osmond asked in a provokingly pointless tone.
Madame Merle looked at him a moment; she knew each of his tones to the
eighth of a note. "Yes, I should like to say to him that I've told you
what he wants, and that it interests you but feebly."
"Don't tell him that. He'll try to interest me more--which is exactly
what I don't want. Tell him I hate his proposal."
"But you don't hate it."
"It doesn't signify; I don't love it. I let him see that, myself, this
evening; I was rude to him on purpose. That sort of thing's a great
bore. There's no hurry."
"I'll tell him that you'll take time and think it over."
"No, don't do that. He'll hang on."
"If I discourage him he'll do the same."
"Yes, but in the one case he'll try to talk and explain--which would be
exceedingly tiresome. In the other he'll probably hold his tongue and go
in for some deeper game. That will leave me quiet. I hate talking with a
donkey."
"Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?"
"Oh, he's a nuisance--with his eternal majolica."
Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she had a faint smile. "He's a gentleman,
he has a charming temper; and, after all, an income of forty thousand
francs!"
"It's misery--'genteel' misery," Osmond broke in. "It's not what I've
dreamed of for Pansy."
"Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to her."
"Do you believe him?" Osmond asked absentmindedly.
"Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I don't
suppose you consider that that matters."
"I don't consider it matters at all; but neither do I believe she has
thought of him."
"That opinion's more convenient," said Madame Merle quietly.
"Has she told you she's in love with him?"
"For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?" Madame Merle
added in a moment.
Osmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle on the other
knee; he clasped his ankle in his hand familiarly--his long, fine
forefinger and thumb could make a ring for it--and gazed a while
before him. "This kind of thing doesn't find me unprepared. It's what I
educated her for. It was all for this--that when such a case should come
up she should do what I prefer."
"I'm not afraid that she'll not do it."
"Well then, where's the hitch?"
"I don't see any. But, all the same, I recommend you not to get rid of
Mr. Rosier. Keep him on hand; he may be useful."
"I can't keep him. Keep him yourself."
"Very good; I'll put him into a corner and allow him so much a day."
Madame Merle had, for the most part, while they talked, been glancing
about her; it was her habit in this situation, just as it was her habit
to interpose a good many blank-looking pauses. A long drop followed the
last words I have quoted; and before it had ended she saw Pansy come out
of the adjoining room, followed by Edward Rosier. The girl advanced a
few steps and then stopped and stood looking at Madame Merle and at her
father.
"He has spoken to her," Madame Merle went on to Osmond.
Her companion never turned his head. "So much for your belief in his
promises. He ought to be horsewhipped."
"He intends to confess, poor little man!"
Osmond got up; he had now taken a sharp look at his daughter. "It
doesn't matter," he murmured, turning away.
Pansy after a moment came up to Madame Merle with her little manner
of unfamiliar politeness. This lady's reception of her was not more
intimate; she simply, as she rose from the sofa, gave her a friendly
smile.
"You're very late," the young creature gently said.
"My dear child, I'm never later than I intend to be."
Madame Merle had not got up to be gracious to Pansy; she moved toward
Edward Rosier. He came to meet her and, very quickly, as if to get it
off his mind, "I've spoken to her!" he whispered.
"I know it, Mr. Rosier."
"Did she tell you?"
"Yes, she told me. Behave properly for the rest of the evening, and come
and see me to-morrow at a quarter past five." She was severe, and in
the manner in which she turned her back to him there was a degree of
contempt which caused him to mutter a decent imprecation.
He had no intention of speaking to Osmond; it was neither the time nor
the place. But he instinctively wandered toward Isabel, who sat talking
with an old lady. He sat down on the other side of her; the old lady
was Italian, and Rosier took for granted she understood no English. "You
said just now you wouldn't help me," he began to Mrs. Osmond. "Perhaps
you'll feel differently when you know--when you know--!"
Isabel met his hesitation. "When I know what?"
"That she's all right."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, that we've come to an understanding."
"She's all wrong," said Isabel. "It won't do."
Poor Rosier gazed at her half-pleadingly, half-angrily; a sudden flush
testified to his sense of injury. "I've never been treated so," he said.
"What is there against me, after all? That's not the way I'm usually
considered. I could have married twenty times."
"It's a pity you didn't. I don't mean twenty times, but once,
comfortably," Isabel added, smiling kindly. "You're not rich enough for
Pansy."
"She doesn't care a straw for one's money."
"No, but her father does."
"Ah yes, he has proved that!" cried the young man.
Isabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady without
ceremony; and he occupied himself for the next ten minutes in pretending
to look at Gilbert Osmond's collection of miniatures, which were neatly
arranged on a series of small velvet screens. But he looked without
seeing; his cheek burned; he was too full of his sense of injury. It was
certain that he had never been treated that way before; he was not used
to being thought not good enough. He knew how good he was, and if such
a fallacy had not been so pernicious he could have laughed at it. He
searched again for Pansy, but she had disappeared, and his main desire
was now to get out of the house. Before doing so he spoke once more to
Isabel; it was not agreeable to him to reflect that he had just said a
rude thing to her--the only point that would now justify a low view of
him.
"I referred to Mr. Osmond as I shouldn't have done, a while ago," he
began. "But you must remember my situation."
"I don't remember what you said," she answered coldly.
"Ah, you're offended, and now you'll never help me."
She was silent an instant, and then with a change of tone: "It's not
that I won't; I simply can't!" Her manner was almost passionate.
"If you COULD, just a little, I'd never again speak of your husband save
as an angel."
"The inducement's great," said Isabel gravely--inscrutably, as he
afterwards, to himself, called it; and she gave him, straight in the
eyes, a look which was also inscrutable. It made him remember somehow
that he had known her as a child; and yet it was keener than he liked,
and he took himself off.
| Edward Rosier now stands in the palace where Isabel and Osmond live at some sort of social gathering. Osmond greets him, saying his wife will be out shortly. When we see Isabel through Edward's eyes, it seems that she has changed very little, imparting still that secret "lustre" of a valuable item. Edward Rosier lets Isabel know that he would like to see Pansy. When we see Pansy through Edward's eyes, the narrator tells us that while she is now nineteen years old, and that while she is pretty, she seems to lack style. She is dressed with "freshness" instead. Edward Rosier would have been inclined to notice these defects, the narrator tells us, if he had not already attributed named her qualities with ideas of his own -- he thinks she is absolutely unique. Mr. Rosier asks Pansy to show him the yellow room, and she agrees. He gets her to admit that she likes him, as she shows him her father's things. Pansy asks if Edward is sure that her father knows that he likes her; he retorts that her father is supposed to know everything. Madame Merle arrives and talks to Gilbert Osmond about Mr. Rosier: Merle considers telling Mr. Rosier that Osmond dislikes the proposal, and Osmond is annoyed at the thought that this will make Mr. Rosier insist. Merle advises Osmond to keep Mr. Rosier on hand, for he may have a use for him. Osmond does not understand this. Meanwhile Mr. Rosier speaks to Isabel. She tells him that he is not rich enough for Pansy, and he feels insulted. He has never been told that he is not good enough. She tells him Pansy's father cares about the money, and he hints that Osmond's love of money was apparent when he married Isabel | summary |
Pansy was not in the first of the rooms, a large apartment with a
concave ceiling and walls covered with old red damask; it was here
Mrs. Osmond usually sat--though she was not in her most customary place
to-night--and that a circle of more especial intimates gathered about
the fire. The room was flushed with subdued, diffused brightness; it
contained the larger things and--almost always--an odour of flowers.
Pansy on this occasion was presumably in the next of the series, the
resort of younger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood before
the chimney, leaning back with his hands behind him; he had one foot up
and was warming the sole. Half a dozen persons, scattered near him, were
talking together; but he was not in the conversation; his eyes had an
expression, frequent with them, that seemed to represent them as engaged
with objects more worth their while than the appearances actually
thrust upon them. Rosier, coming in unannounced, failed to attract his
attention; but the young man, who was very punctilious, though he was
even exceptionally conscious that it was the wife, not the husband, he
had come to see, went up to shake hands with him. Osmond put out his
left hand, without changing his attitude.
"How d'ye do? My wife's somewhere about."
"Never fear; I shall find her," said Rosier cheerfully.
Osmond, however, took him in; he had never in his life felt himself so
efficiently looked at. "Madame Merle has told him, and he doesn't like
it," he privately reasoned. He had hoped Madame Merle would be there,
but she was not in sight; perhaps she was in one of the other rooms or
would come later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond,
having a fancy he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quickly
resentful, and where politeness was concerned had ever a strong need of
being quite in the right. He looked round him and smiled, all without
help, and then in a moment, "I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monte
to-day," he said.
Osmond answered nothing at first; but presently, while he warmed his
boot-sole, "I don't care a fig for Capo di Monte!" he returned.
"I hope you're not losing your interest?"
"In old pots and plates? Yes, I'm losing my interest."
Rosier for an instant forgot the delicacy of his position. "You're not
thinking of parting with a--a piece or two?"
"No, I'm not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr. Rosier," said
Osmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his visitor.
"Ah, you want to keep, but not to add," Rosier remarked brightly.
"Exactly. I've nothing I wish to match."
Poor Rosier was aware he had blushed; he was distressed at his want of
assurance. "Ah, well, I have!" was all he could murmur; and he knew
his murmur was partly lost as he turned away. He took his course to the
adjoining room and met Mrs. Osmond coming out of the deep doorway. She
was dressed in black velvet; she looked high and splendid, as he had
said, and yet oh so radiantly gentle! We know what Mr. Rosier thought
of her and the terms in which, to Madame Merle, he had expressed his
admiration. Like his appreciation of her dear little stepdaughter it
was based partly on his eye for decorative character, his instinct for
authenticity; but also on a sense for uncatalogued values, for that
secret of a "lustre" beyond any recorded losing or rediscovering,
which his devotion to brittle wares had still not disqualified him
to recognise. Mrs. Osmond, at present, might well have gratified such
tastes. The years had touched her only to enrich her; the flower of her
youth had not faded, it only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lost
something of that quick eagerness to which her husband had privately
taken exception--she had more the air of being able to wait. Now, at all
events, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck our young man as the
picture of a gracious lady. "You see I'm very regular," he said. "But
who should be if I'm not?"
"Yes, I've known you longer than any one here. But we mustn't indulge in
tender reminiscences. I want to introduce you to a young lady."
"Ah, please, what young lady?" Rosier was immensely obliging; but this
was not what he had come for.
"She sits there by the fire in pink and has no one to speak to." Rosier
hesitated a moment. "Can't Mr. Osmond speak to her? He's within six feet
of her."
Mrs. Osmond also hesitated. "She's not very lively, and he doesn't like
dull people."
"But she's good enough for me? Ah now, that's hard!"
"I only mean that you've ideas for two. And then you're so obliging."
"No, he's not--to me." And Mrs. Osmond vaguely smiled.
"That's a sign he should be doubly so to other women.
"So I tell him," she said, still smiling.
"You see I want some tea," Rosier went on, looking wistfully beyond.
"That's perfect. Go and give some to my young lady."
"Very good; but after that I'll abandon her to her fate. The simple
truth is I'm dying to have a little talk with Miss Osmond."
"Ah," said Isabel, turning away, "I can't help you there!"
Five minutes later, while he handed a tea-cup to the damsel in pink,
whom he had conducted into the other room, he wondered whether, in
making to Mrs. Osmond the profession I have just quoted, he had broken
the spirit of his promise to Madame Merle. Such a question was capable
of occupying this young man's mind for a considerable time. At last,
however, he became--comparatively speaking--reckless; he cared little
what promises he might break. The fate to which he had threatened to
abandon the damsel in pink proved to be none so terrible; for Pansy
Osmond, who had given him the tea for his companion--Pansy was as fond
as ever of making tea--presently came and talked to her. Into this mild
colloquy Edward Rosier entered little; he sat by moodily, watching his
small sweetheart. If we look at her now through his eyes we shall at
first not see much to remind us of the obedient little girl who, at
Florence, three years before, was sent to walk short distances in the
Cascine while her father and Miss Archer talked together of matters
sacred to elder people. But after a moment we shall perceive that if at
nineteen Pansy has become a young lady she doesn't really fill out the
part; that if she has grown very pretty she lacks in a deplorable degree
the quality known and esteemed in the appearance of females as style;
and that if she is dressed with great freshness she wears her smart
attire with an undisguised appearance of saving it--very much as if it
were lent her for the occasion. Edward Rosier, it would seem, would have
been just the man to note these defects; and in point of fact there was
not a quality of this young lady, of any sort, that he had not noted.
Only he called her qualities by names of his own--some of which indeed
were happy enough. "No, she's unique--she's absolutely unique," he used
to say to himself; and you may be sure that not for an instant would he
have admitted to you that she was wanting in style. Style? Why, she had
the style of a little princess; if you couldn't see it you had no eye.
It was not modern, it was not conscious, it would produce no impression
in Broadway; the small, serious damsel, in her stiff little dress, only
looked like an Infanta of Velasquez. This was enough for Edward Rosier,
who thought her delightfully old-fashioned. Her anxious eyes, her
charming lips, her slip of a figure, were as touching as a childish
prayer. He had now an acute desire to know just to what point she liked
him--a desire which made him fidget as he sat in his chair. It made him
feel hot, so that he had to pat his forehead with his handkerchief; he
had never been so uncomfortable. She was such a perfect jeune fille, and
one couldn't make of a jeune fille the enquiry requisite for throwing
light on such a point. A jeune fille was what Rosier had always dreamed
of--a jeune fille who should yet not be French, for he had felt that
this nationality would complicate the question. He was sure Pansy had
never looked at a newspaper and that, in the way of novels, if she
had read Sir Walter Scott it was the very most. An American jeune
fille--what could be better than that? She would be frank and gay, and
yet would not have walked alone, nor have received letters from men,
nor have been taken to the theatre to see the comedy of manners. Rosier
could not deny that, as the matter stood, it would be a breach of
hospitality to appeal directly to this unsophisticated creature; but
he was now in imminent danger of asking himself if hospitality were
the most sacred thing in the world. Was not the sentiment that he
entertained for Miss Osmond of infinitely greater importance? Of greater
importance to him--yes; but not probably to the master of the house.
There was one comfort; even if this gentleman had been placed on his
guard by Madame Merle he would not have extended the warning to Pansy;
it would not have been part of his policy to let her know that a
prepossessing young man was in love with her. But he WAS in love
with her, the prepossessing young man; and all these restrictions of
circumstance had ended by irritating him. What had Gilbert Osmond meant
by giving him two fingers of his left hand? If Osmond was rude, surely
he himself might be bold. He felt extremely bold after the dull girl
in so vain a disguise of rose-colour had responded to the call of her
mother, who came in to say, with a significant simper at Rosier, that
she must carry her off to other triumphs. The mother and daughter
departed together, and now it depended only upon him that he should be
virtually alone with Pansy. He had never been alone with her before;
he had never been alone with a jeune fille. It was a great moment; poor
Rosier began to pat his forehead again. There was another room beyond
the one in which they stood--a small room that had been thrown open and
lighted, but that, the company not being numerous, had remained empty
all the evening. It was empty yet; it was upholstered in pale yellow;
there were several lamps; through the open door it looked the very
temple of authorised love. Rosier gazed a moment through this aperture;
he was afraid that Pansy would run away, and felt almost capable of
stretching out a hand to detain her. But she lingered where the other
maiden had left them, making no motion to join a knot of visitors on
the far side of the room. For a little it occurred to him that she was
frightened--too frightened perhaps to move; but a second glance assured
him she was not, and he then reflected that she was too innocent indeed
for that. After a supreme hesitation he asked her if he might go and
look at the yellow room, which seemed so attractive yet so virginal. He
had been there already with Osmond, to inspect the furniture, which was
of the First French Empire, and especially to admire the clock (which he
didn't really admire), an immense classic structure of that period. He
therefore felt that he had now begun to manoeuvre.
"Certainly, you may go," said Pansy; "and if you like I'll show you."
She was not in the least frightened.
"That's just what I hoped you'd say; you're so very kind," Rosier
murmured.
They went in together; Rosier really thought the room very ugly, and it
seemed cold. The same idea appeared to have struck Pansy. "It's not for
winter evenings; it's more for summer," she said. "It's papa's taste; he
has so much."
He had a good deal, Rosier thought; but some of it was very bad. He
looked about him; he hardly knew what to say in such a situation.
"Doesn't Mrs. Osmond care how her rooms are done? Has she no taste?" he
asked.
"Oh yes, a great deal; but it's more for literature," said Pansy--"and
for conversation. But papa cares also for those things. I think he knows
everything."
Rosier was silent a little. "There's one thing I'm sure he knows!" he
broke out presently. "He knows that when I come here it's, with all
respect to him, with all respect to Mrs. Osmond, who's so charming--it's
really," said the young man, "to see you!"
"To see me?" And Pansy raised her vaguely troubled eyes.
"To see you; that's what I come for," Rosier repeated, feeling the
intoxication of a rupture with authority.
Pansy stood looking at him, simply, intently, openly; a blush was not
needed to make her face more modest. "I thought it was for that."
"And it was not disagreeable to you?"
"I couldn't tell; I didn't know. You never told me," said Pansy.
"I was afraid of offending you."
"You don't offend me," the young girl murmured, smiling as if an angel
had kissed her.
"You like me then, Pansy?" Rosier asked very gently, feeling very happy.
"Yes--I like you."
They had walked to the chimney-piece where the big cold Empire clock
was perched; they were well within the room and beyond observation from
without. The tone in which she had said these four words seemed to him
the very breath of nature, and his only answer could be to take her
hand and hold it a moment. Then he raised it to his lips. She submitted,
still with her pure, trusting smile, in which there was something
ineffably passive. She liked him--she had liked him all the while; now
anything might happen! She was ready--she had been ready always, waiting
for him to speak. If he had not spoken she would have waited for ever;
but when the word came she dropped like the peach from the shaken tree.
Rosier felt that if he should draw her toward him and hold her to his
heart she would submit without a murmur, would rest there without a
question. It was true that this would be a rash experiment in a yellow
Empire salottino. She had known it was for her he came, and yet like
what a perfect little lady she had carried it off!
"You're very dear to me," he murmured, trying to believe that there was
after all such a thing as hospitality.
She looked a moment at her hand, where he had kissed it. "Did you say
papa knows?"
"You told me just now he knows everything."
"I think you must make sure," said Pansy.
"Ah, my dear, when once I'm sure of YOU!" Rosier murmured in her ear;
whereupon she turned back to the other rooms with a little air of
consistency which seemed to imply that their appeal should be immediate.
The other rooms meanwhile had become conscious of the arrival of Madame
Merle, who, wherever she went, produced an impression when she entered.
How she did it the most attentive spectator could not have told you, for
she neither spoke loud, nor laughed profusely, nor moved rapidly, nor
dressed with splendour, nor appealed in any appreciable manner to the
audience. Large, fair, smiling, serene, there was something in her very
tranquillity that diffused itself, and when people looked round it was
because of a sudden quiet. On this occasion she had done the quietest
thing she could do; after embracing Mrs. Osmond, which was more
striking, she had sat down on a small sofa to commune with the master
of the house. There was a brief exchange of commonplaces between these
two--they always paid, in public, a certain formal tribute to the
commonplace--and then Madame Merle, whose eyes had been wandering, asked
if little Mr. Rosier had come this evening.
"He came nearly an hour ago--but he has disappeared," Osmond said.
"And where's Pansy?"
"In the other room. There are several people there."
"He's probably among them," said Madame Merle.
"Do you wish to see him?" Osmond asked in a provokingly pointless tone.
Madame Merle looked at him a moment; she knew each of his tones to the
eighth of a note. "Yes, I should like to say to him that I've told you
what he wants, and that it interests you but feebly."
"Don't tell him that. He'll try to interest me more--which is exactly
what I don't want. Tell him I hate his proposal."
"But you don't hate it."
"It doesn't signify; I don't love it. I let him see that, myself, this
evening; I was rude to him on purpose. That sort of thing's a great
bore. There's no hurry."
"I'll tell him that you'll take time and think it over."
"No, don't do that. He'll hang on."
"If I discourage him he'll do the same."
"Yes, but in the one case he'll try to talk and explain--which would be
exceedingly tiresome. In the other he'll probably hold his tongue and go
in for some deeper game. That will leave me quiet. I hate talking with a
donkey."
"Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?"
"Oh, he's a nuisance--with his eternal majolica."
Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she had a faint smile. "He's a gentleman,
he has a charming temper; and, after all, an income of forty thousand
francs!"
"It's misery--'genteel' misery," Osmond broke in. "It's not what I've
dreamed of for Pansy."
"Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to her."
"Do you believe him?" Osmond asked absentmindedly.
"Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I don't
suppose you consider that that matters."
"I don't consider it matters at all; but neither do I believe she has
thought of him."
"That opinion's more convenient," said Madame Merle quietly.
"Has she told you she's in love with him?"
"For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?" Madame Merle
added in a moment.
Osmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle on the other
knee; he clasped his ankle in his hand familiarly--his long, fine
forefinger and thumb could make a ring for it--and gazed a while
before him. "This kind of thing doesn't find me unprepared. It's what I
educated her for. It was all for this--that when such a case should come
up she should do what I prefer."
"I'm not afraid that she'll not do it."
"Well then, where's the hitch?"
"I don't see any. But, all the same, I recommend you not to get rid of
Mr. Rosier. Keep him on hand; he may be useful."
"I can't keep him. Keep him yourself."
"Very good; I'll put him into a corner and allow him so much a day."
Madame Merle had, for the most part, while they talked, been glancing
about her; it was her habit in this situation, just as it was her habit
to interpose a good many blank-looking pauses. A long drop followed the
last words I have quoted; and before it had ended she saw Pansy come out
of the adjoining room, followed by Edward Rosier. The girl advanced a
few steps and then stopped and stood looking at Madame Merle and at her
father.
"He has spoken to her," Madame Merle went on to Osmond.
Her companion never turned his head. "So much for your belief in his
promises. He ought to be horsewhipped."
"He intends to confess, poor little man!"
Osmond got up; he had now taken a sharp look at his daughter. "It
doesn't matter," he murmured, turning away.
Pansy after a moment came up to Madame Merle with her little manner
of unfamiliar politeness. This lady's reception of her was not more
intimate; she simply, as she rose from the sofa, gave her a friendly
smile.
"You're very late," the young creature gently said.
"My dear child, I'm never later than I intend to be."
Madame Merle had not got up to be gracious to Pansy; she moved toward
Edward Rosier. He came to meet her and, very quickly, as if to get it
off his mind, "I've spoken to her!" he whispered.
"I know it, Mr. Rosier."
"Did she tell you?"
"Yes, she told me. Behave properly for the rest of the evening, and come
and see me to-morrow at a quarter past five." She was severe, and in
the manner in which she turned her back to him there was a degree of
contempt which caused him to mutter a decent imprecation.
He had no intention of speaking to Osmond; it was neither the time nor
the place. But he instinctively wandered toward Isabel, who sat talking
with an old lady. He sat down on the other side of her; the old lady
was Italian, and Rosier took for granted she understood no English. "You
said just now you wouldn't help me," he began to Mrs. Osmond. "Perhaps
you'll feel differently when you know--when you know--!"
Isabel met his hesitation. "When I know what?"
"That she's all right."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, that we've come to an understanding."
"She's all wrong," said Isabel. "It won't do."
Poor Rosier gazed at her half-pleadingly, half-angrily; a sudden flush
testified to his sense of injury. "I've never been treated so," he said.
"What is there against me, after all? That's not the way I'm usually
considered. I could have married twenty times."
"It's a pity you didn't. I don't mean twenty times, but once,
comfortably," Isabel added, smiling kindly. "You're not rich enough for
Pansy."
"She doesn't care a straw for one's money."
"No, but her father does."
"Ah yes, he has proved that!" cried the young man.
Isabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady without
ceremony; and he occupied himself for the next ten minutes in pretending
to look at Gilbert Osmond's collection of miniatures, which were neatly
arranged on a series of small velvet screens. But he looked without
seeing; his cheek burned; he was too full of his sense of injury. It was
certain that he had never been treated that way before; he was not used
to being thought not good enough. He knew how good he was, and if such
a fallacy had not been so pernicious he could have laughed at it. He
searched again for Pansy, but she had disappeared, and his main desire
was now to get out of the house. Before doing so he spoke once more to
Isabel; it was not agreeable to him to reflect that he had just said a
rude thing to her--the only point that would now justify a low view of
him.
"I referred to Mr. Osmond as I shouldn't have done, a while ago," he
began. "But you must remember my situation."
"I don't remember what you said," she answered coldly.
"Ah, you're offended, and now you'll never help me."
She was silent an instant, and then with a change of tone: "It's not
that I won't; I simply can't!" Her manner was almost passionate.
"If you COULD, just a little, I'd never again speak of your husband save
as an angel."
"The inducement's great," said Isabel gravely--inscrutably, as he
afterwards, to himself, called it; and she gave him, straight in the
eyes, a look which was also inscrutable. It made him remember somehow
that he had known her as a child; and yet it was keener than he liked,
and he took himself off.
| Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the "ficelle" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, "Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a "representative" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an "intrinsic value" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from "using" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of "intrinsic value" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon? | analysis |
He went to see Madame Merle on the morrow, and to his surprise she let
him off rather easily. But she made him promise that he would stop
there till something should have been decided. Mr. Osmond had had higher
expectations; it was very true that as he had no intention of giving his
daughter a portion such expectations were open to criticism or even, if
one would, to ridicule. But she would advise Mr. Rosier not to take that
tone; if he would possess his soul in patience he might arrive at his
felicity. Mr. Osmond was not favourable to his suit, but it wouldn't be
a miracle if he should gradually come round. Pansy would never defy
her father, he might depend on that; so nothing was to be gained by
precipitation. Mr. Osmond needed to accustom his mind to an offer of a
sort that he had not hitherto entertained, and this result must come of
itself--it was useless to try to force it. Rosier remarked that his own
situation would be in the meanwhile the most uncomfortable in the world,
and Madame Merle assured him that she felt for him. But, as she justly
declared, one couldn't have everything one wanted; she had learned that
lesson for herself. There would be no use in his writing to Gilbert
Osmond, who had charged her to tell him as much. He wished the matter
dropped for a few weeks and would himself write when he should have
anything to communicate that it might please Mr. Rosier to hear.
"He doesn't like your having spoken to Pansy, Ah, he doesn't like it at
all," said Madame Merle.
"I'm perfectly willing to give him a chance to tell me so!"
"If you do that he'll tell you more than you care to hear. Go to the
house, for the next month, as little as possible, and leave the rest to
me."
"As little as possible? Who's to measure the possibility?"
"Let me measure it. Go on Thursday evenings with the rest of the world,
but don't go at all at odd times, and don't fret about Pansy. I'll see
that she understands everything. She's a calm little nature; she'll take
it quietly."
Edward Rosier fretted about Pansy a good deal, but he did as he was
advised, and awaited another Thursday evening before returning to
Palazzo Roccanera. There had been a party at dinner, so that though he
went early the company was already tolerably numerous. Osmond, as usual,
was in the first room, near the fire, staring straight at the door, so
that, not to be distinctly uncivil, Rosier had to go and speak to him.
"I'm glad that you can take a hint," Pansy's father said, slightly
closing his keen, conscious eyes.
"I take no hints. But I took a message, as I supposed it to be."
"You took it? Where did you take it?"
It seemed to poor Rosier he was being insulted, and he waited a moment,
asking himself how much a true lover ought to submit to. "Madame Merle
gave me, as I understood it, a message from you--to the effect that you
declined to give me the opportunity I desire, the opportunity to explain
my wishes to you." And he flattered himself he spoke rather sternly.
"I don't see what Madame Merle has to do with it. Why did you apply to
Madame Merle?"
"I asked her for an opinion--for nothing more. I did so because she had
seemed to me to know you very well."
"She doesn't know me so well as she thinks," said Osmond.
"I'm sorry for that, because she has given me some little ground for
hope."
Osmond stared into the fire a moment. "I set a great price on my
daughter."
"You can't set a higher one than I do. Don't I prove it by wishing to
marry her?"
"I wish to marry her very well," Osmond went on with a dry impertinence
which, in another mood, poor Rosier would have admired.
"Of course I pretend she'd marry well in marrying me. She couldn't
marry a man who loves her more--or whom, I may venture to add, she loves
more."
"I'm not bound to accept your theories as to whom my daughter
loves"--and Osmond looked up with a quick, cold smile.
"I'm not theorising. Your daughter has spoken."
"Not to me," Osmond continued, now bending forward a little and dropping
his eyes to his boot-toes.
"I have her promise, sir!" cried Rosier with the sharpness of
exasperation.
As their voices had been pitched very low before, such a note attracted
some attention from the company. Osmond waited till this little movement
had subsided; then he said, all undisturbed: "I think she has no
recollection of having given it."
They had been standing with their faces to the fire, and after he had
uttered these last words the master of the house turned round again
to the room. Before Rosier had time to reply he perceived that a
gentleman--a stranger--had just come in, unannounced, according to the
Roman custom, and was about to present himself to his host. The latter
smiled blandly, but somewhat blankly; the visitor had a handsome face
and a large, fair beard, and was evidently an Englishman.
"You apparently don't recognise me," he said with a smile that expressed
more than Osmond's.
"Ah yes, now I do. I expected so little to see you."
Rosier departed and went in direct pursuit of Pansy. He sought her, as
usual, in the neighbouring room, but he again encountered Mrs. Osmond
in his path. He gave his hostess no greeting--he was too righteously
indignant, but said to her crudely: "Your husband's awfully
cold-blooded."
She gave the same mystical smile he had noticed before. "You can't
expect every one to be as hot as yourself."
"I don't pretend to be cold, but I'm cool. What has he been doing to his
daughter?"
"I've no idea."
"Don't you take any interest?" Rosier demanded with his sense that she
too was irritating.
For a moment she answered nothing; then, "No!" she said abruptly and
with a quickened light in her eyes which directly contradicted the word.
"Pardon me if I don't believe that. Where's Miss Osmond?"
"In the corner, making tea. Please leave her there."
Rosier instantly discovered his friend, who had been hidden by
intervening groups. He watched her, but her own attention was entirely
given to her occupation. "What on earth has he done to her?" he asked
again imploringly. "He declares to me she has given me up."
"She has not given you up," Isabel said in a low tone and without
looking at him.
"Ah, thank you for that! Now I'll leave her alone as long as you think
proper!"
He had hardly spoken when he saw her change colour, and became aware
that Osmond was coming toward her accompanied by the gentleman who had
just entered. He judged the latter, in spite of the advantage of good
looks and evident social experience, a little embarrassed. "Isabel,"
said her husband, "I bring you an old friend."
Mrs. Osmond's face, though it wore a smile, was, like her old friend's,
not perfectly confident. "I'm very happy to see Lord Warburton," she
said. Rosier turned away and, now that his talk with her had been
interrupted, felt absolved from the little pledge he had just taken. He
had a quick impression that Mrs. Osmond wouldn't notice what he did.
Isabel in fact, to do him justice, for some time quite ceased to observe
him. She had been startled; she hardly knew if she felt a pleasure or
a pain. Lord Warburton, however, now that he was face to face with her,
was plainly quite sure of his own sense of the matter; though his grey
eyes had still their fine original property of keeping recognition and
attestation strictly sincere. He was "heavier" than of yore and looked
older; he stood there very solidly and sensibly.
"I suppose you didn't expect to see me," he said; "I've but just
arrived. Literally, I only got here this evening. You see I've lost
no time in coming to pay you my respects. I knew you were at home on
Thursdays."
"You see the fame of your Thursdays has spread to England," Osmond
remarked to his wife.
"It's very kind of Lord Warburton to come so soon; we're greatly
flattered," Isabel said.
"Ah well, it's better than stopping in one of those horrible inns,"
Osmond went on.
"The hotel seems very good; I think it's the same at which I saw you
four years since. You know it was here in Rome that we first met; it's a
long time ago. Do you remember where I bade you good-bye?" his lordship
asked of his hostess. "It was in the Capitol, in the first room."
"I remember that myself," said Osmond. "I was there at the time."
"Yes, I remember you there. I was very sorry to leave Rome--so sorry
that, somehow or other, it became almost a dismal memory, and I've never
cared to come back till to-day. But I knew you were living here," her
old friend went on to Isabel, "and I assure you I've often thought of
you. It must be a charming place to live in," he added with a look,
round him, at her established home, in which she might have caught the
dim ghost of his old ruefulness.
"We should have been glad to see you at any time," Osmond observed with
propriety.
"Thank you very much. I haven't been out of England since then. Till a
month ago I really supposed my travels over."
"I've heard of you from time to time," said Isabel, who had already,
with her rare capacity for such inward feats, taken the measure of what
meeting him again meant for her.
"I hope you've heard no harm. My life has been a remarkably complete
blank."
"Like the good reigns in history," Osmond suggested. He appeared to
think his duties as a host now terminated--he had performed them so
conscientiously. Nothing could have been more adequate, more
nicely measured, than his courtesy to his wife's old friend. It
was punctilious, it was explicit, it was everything but natural--a
deficiency which Lord Warburton, who, himself, had on the whole a good
deal of nature, may be supposed to have perceived. "I'll leave you and
Mrs. Osmond together," he added. "You have reminiscences into which I
don't enter."
"I'm afraid you lose a good deal!" Lord Warburton called after him, as
he moved away, in a tone which perhaps betrayed overmuch an appreciation
of his generosity. Then the visitor turned on Isabel the deeper, the
deepest, consciousness of his look, which gradually became more serious.
"I'm really very glad to see you."
"It's very pleasant. You're very kind."
"Do you know that you're changed--a little?"
She just hesitated. "Yes--a good deal."
"I don't mean for the worse, of course; and yet how can I say for the
better?"
"I think I shall have no scruple in saying that to YOU," she bravely
returned.
"Ah well, for me--it's a long time. It would be a pity there shouldn't
be something to show for it." They sat down and she asked him about
his sisters, with other enquiries of a somewhat perfunctory kind. He
answered her questions as if they interested him, and in a few moments
she saw--or believed she saw--that he would press with less of his
whole weight than of yore. Time had breathed upon his heart and, without
chilling it, given it a relieved sense of having taken the air. Isabel
felt her usual esteem for Time rise at a bound. Her friend's manner was
certainly that of a contented man, one who would rather like people, or
like her at least, to know him for such. "There's something I must tell
you without more delay," he resumed. "I've brought Ralph Touchett with
me."
"Brought him with you?" Isabel's surprise was great.
"He's at the hotel; he was too tired to come out and has gone to bed."
"I'll go to see him," she immediately said.
"That's exactly what I hoped you'd do. I had an idea you hadn't seen
much of him since your marriage, that in fact your relations were a--a
little more formal. That's why I hesitated--like an awkward Briton."
"I'm as fond of Ralph as ever," Isabel answered. "But why has he come to
Rome?" The declaration was very gentle, the question a little sharp.
"Because he's very far gone, Mrs. Osmond."
"Rome then is no place for him. I heard from him that he had determined
to give up his custom of wintering abroad and to remain in England,
indoors, in what he called an artificial climate."
"Poor fellow, he doesn't succeed with the artificial! I went to see him
three weeks ago, at Gardencourt, and found him thoroughly ill. He has
been getting worse every year, and now he has no strength left. He
smokes no more cigarettes! He had got up an artificial climate indeed;
the house was as hot as Calcutta. Nevertheless he had suddenly taken it
into his head to start for Sicily. I didn't believe in it--neither did
the doctors, nor any of his friends. His mother, as I suppose you know,
is in America, so there was no one to prevent him. He stuck to his idea
that it would be the saving of him to spend the winter at Catania.
He said he could take servants and furniture, could make himself
comfortable, but in point of fact he hasn't brought anything. I wanted
him at least to go by sea, to save fatigue; but he said he hated the sea
and wished to stop at Rome. After that, though I thought it all rubbish,
I made up my mind to come with him. I'm acting as--what do you call it
in America?--as a kind of moderator. Poor Ralph's very moderate now. We
left England a fortnight ago, and he has been very bad on the way. He
can't keep warm, and the further south we come the more he feels the
cold. He has got rather a good man, but I'm afraid he's beyond human
help. I wanted him to take with him some clever fellow--I mean some
sharp young doctor; but he wouldn't hear of it. If you don't mind my
saying so, I think it was a most extraordinary time for Mrs. Touchett to
decide on going to America."
Isabel had listened eagerly; her face was full of pain and wonder. "My
aunt does that at fixed periods and lets nothing turn her aside. When
the date comes round she starts; I think she'd have started if Ralph had
been dying."
"I sometimes think he IS dying," Lord Warburton said.
Isabel sprang up. "I'll go to him then now."
He checked her; he was a little disconcerted at the quick effect of his
words. "I don't mean I thought so to-night. On the contrary, to-day,
in the train, he seemed particularly well; the idea of our reaching
Rome--he's very fond of Rome, you know--gave him strength. An hour ago,
when I bade him goodnight, he told me he was very tired, but very happy.
Go to him in the morning; that's all I mean. I didn't tell him I was
coming here; I didn't decide to till after we had separated. Then I
remembered he had told me you had an evening, and that it was this very
Thursday. It occurred to me to come in and tell you he's here, and let
you know you had perhaps better not wait for him to call. I think he
said he hadn't written to you." There was no need of Isabel's declaring
that she would act upon Lord Warburton's information; she looked, as she
sat there, like a winged creature held back. "Let alone that I wanted to
see you for myself," her visitor gallantly added.
"I don't understand Ralph's plan; it seems to me very wild," she said.
"I was glad to think of him between those thick walls at Gardencourt."
"He was completely alone there; the thick walls were his only company."
"You went to see him; you've been extremely kind."
"Oh dear, I had nothing to do," said Lord Warburton.
"We hear, on the contrary, that you're doing great things. Every one
speaks of you as a great statesman, and I'm perpetually seeing your name
in the Times, which, by the way, doesn't appear to hold it in reverence.
You're apparently as wild a radical as ever."
"I don't feel nearly so wild; you know the world has come round to me.
Touchett and I have kept up a sort of parliamentary debate all the way
from London. I tell him he's the last of the Tories, and he calls me
the King of the Goths--says I have, down to the details of my personal
appearance, every sign of the brute. So you see there's life in him
yet."
Isabel had many questions to ask about Ralph, but she abstained from
asking them all. She would see for herself on the morrow. She perceived
that after a little Lord Warburton would tire of that subject--he had a
conception of other possible topics. She was more and more able to say
to herself that he had recovered, and, what is more to the point, she
was able to say it without bitterness. He had been for her, of old,
such an image of urgency, of insistence, of something to be resisted
and reasoned with, that his reappearance at first menaced her with a new
trouble. But she was now reassured; she could see he only wished to live
with her on good terms, that she was to understand he had forgiven her
and was incapable of the bad taste of making pointed allusions. This was
not a form of revenge, of course; she had no suspicion of his wishing to
punish her by an exhibition of disillusionment; she did him the justice
to believe it had simply occurred to him that she would now take a
good-natured interest in knowing he was resigned. It was the resignation
of a healthy, manly nature, in which sentimental wounds could never
fester. British politics had cured him; she had known they would. She
gave an envious thought to the happier lot of men, who are always free
to plunge into the healing waters of action. Lord Warburton of course
spoke of the past, but he spoke of it without implications; he even
went so far as to allude to their former meeting in Rome as a very jolly
time. And he told her he had been immensely interested in hearing of her
marriage and that it was a great pleasure for him to make Mr. Osmond's
acquaintance--since he could hardly be said to have made it on the other
occasion. He had not written to her at the time of that passage in her
history, but he didn't apologise to her for this. The only thing he
implied was that they were old friends, intimate friends. It was very
much as an intimate friend that he said to her, suddenly, after a short
pause which he had occupied in smiling, as he looked about him, like a
person amused, at a provincial entertainment, by some innocent game of
guesses--
"Well now, I suppose you're very happy and all that sort of thing?"
Isabel answered with a quick laugh; the tone of his remark struck her
almost as the accent of comedy. "Do you suppose if I were not I'd tell
you?"
"Well, I don't know. I don't see why not."
"I do then. Fortunately, however, I'm very happy."
"You've got an awfully good house."
"Yes, it's very pleasant. But that's not my merit--it's my husband's."
"You mean he has arranged it?"
"Yes, it was nothing when we came."
"He must be very clever."
"He has a genius for upholstery," said Isabel.
"There's a great rage for that sort of thing now. But you must have a
taste of your own."
"I enjoy things when they're done, but I've no ideas. I can never
propose anything."
"Do you mean you accept what others propose?"
"Very willingly, for the most part."
"That's a good thing to know. I shall propose to you something."
"It will be very kind. I must say, however, that I've in a few small
ways a certain initiative. I should like for instance to introduce you
to some of these people."
"Oh, please don't; I prefer sitting here. Unless it be to that young
lady in the blue dress. She has a charming face."
"The one talking to the rosy young man? That's my husband's daughter."
"Lucky man, your husband. What a dear little maid!"
"You must make her acquaintance."
"In a moment--with pleasure. I like looking at her from here." He ceased
to look at her, however, very soon; his eyes constantly reverted to Mrs.
Osmond. "Do you know I was wrong just now in saying you had changed?" he
presently went on. "You seem to me, after all, very much the same."
"And yet I find it a great change to be married," said Isabel with mild
gaiety.
"It affects most people more than it has affected you. You see I haven't
gone in for that."
"It rather surprises me."
"You ought to understand it, Mrs. Osmond. But I do want to marry," he
added more simply.
"It ought to be very easy," Isabel said, rising--after which she
reflected, with a pang perhaps too visible, that she was hardly the
person to say this. It was perhaps because Lord Warburton divined the
pang that he generously forbore to call her attention to her not having
contributed then to the facility.
Edward Rosier had meanwhile seated himself on an ottoman beside Pansy's
tea-table. He pretended at first to talk to her about trifles, and she
asked him who was the new gentleman conversing with her stepmother.
"He's an English lord," said Rosier. "I don't know more."
"I wonder if he'll have some tea. The English are so fond of tea."
"Never mind that; I've something particular to say to you."
"Don't speak so loud every one will hear," said Pansy.
"They won't hear if you continue to look that way: as if your only
thought in life was the wish the kettle would boil."
"It has just been filled; the servants never know!"--and she sighed with
the weight of her responsibility.
"Do you know what your father said to me just now? That you didn't mean
what you said a week ago."
"I don't mean everything I say. How can a young girl do that? But I mean
what I say to you."
"He told me you had forgotten me."
"Ah no, I don't forget," said Pansy, showing her pretty teeth in a fixed
smile.
"Then everything's just the very same?"
"Ah no, not the very same. Papa has been terribly severe."
"What has he done to you?"
"He asked me what you had done to me, and I told him everything. Then he
forbade me to marry you."
"You needn't mind that."
"Oh yes, I must indeed. I can't disobey papa."
"Not for one who loves you as I do, and whom you pretend to love?"
She raised the lid of the tea-pot, gazing into this vessel for a moment;
then she dropped six words into its aromatic depths. "I love you just as
much."
"What good will that do me?"
"Ah," said Pansy, raising her sweet, vague eyes, "I don't know that."
"You disappoint me," groaned poor Rosier.
She was silent a little; she handed a tea-cup to a servant. "Please
don't talk any more."
"Is this to be all my satisfaction?"
"Papa said I was not to talk with you."
"Do you sacrifice me like that? Ah, it's too much!"
"I wish you'd wait a little," said the girl in a voice just distinct
enough to betray a quaver.
"Of course I'll wait if you'll give me hope. But you take my life away."
"I'll not give you up--oh no!" Pansy went on.
"He'll try and make you marry some one else."
"I'll never do that."
"What then are we to wait for?"
She hesitated again. "I'll speak to Mrs. Osmond and she'll help us." It
was in this manner that she for the most part designated her stepmother.
"She won't help us much. She's afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of your father, I suppose."
Pansy shook her little head. "She's not afraid of any one. We must have
patience."
"Ah, that's an awful word," Rosier groaned; he was deeply disconcerted.
Oblivious of the customs of good society, he dropped his head into his
hands and, supporting it with a melancholy grace, sat staring at the
carpet. Presently he became aware of a good deal of movement about
him and, as he looked up, saw Pansy making a curtsey--it was still her
little curtsey of the convent--to the English lord whom Mrs. Osmond had
introduced.
| Edward Rosier goes to see Madame Merle, who quickly forgives him for breaking his promise not to speak to Isabel. She tells him that he needs to only be patient and he may have a chance. She also warns him not to visit the house too often. Edward Rosier then skips one evening of the Thursday night gatherings at the Palazzo Roccanero, where Isabel and Osmond live together. The next Thursday he attends though. He discusses his love for Pansy with Osmond, who tells him that Pansy does not care for him and will not want to marry him. Edward then goes to discuss the matter with Isabel. As they are speaking, Lord Warburton suddenly appears. Edward slips away to speak with Pansy. Lord Warburton informs Isabel that he has arrived with Ralph, who has taken a turn for the worse. Isabel decides to see Ralph the next morning. She notes that Warburton has nothing of the spirit of revenge, and bears no malice against her for refusing him. She envies him in fact, because as a man, he has been able to plunge himself into the "healing waters of action". He asks if she is happy, and she jokes that she would not tell him if she was not. She then says that she is happy. He says that he may yet marry. Edward Rosier meanwhile speaks to Pansy, asking if she has changed her mind about him. She says she has not, but that she has promised her father that she will not speak with him. She tells him that her plan is to speak with Isabel about helping change Osmond's mind. Lord Warburton and Isabel then come up to Pansy for Lord Warburton to be introduced to her | summary |
He went to see Madame Merle on the morrow, and to his surprise she let
him off rather easily. But she made him promise that he would stop
there till something should have been decided. Mr. Osmond had had higher
expectations; it was very true that as he had no intention of giving his
daughter a portion such expectations were open to criticism or even, if
one would, to ridicule. But she would advise Mr. Rosier not to take that
tone; if he would possess his soul in patience he might arrive at his
felicity. Mr. Osmond was not favourable to his suit, but it wouldn't be
a miracle if he should gradually come round. Pansy would never defy
her father, he might depend on that; so nothing was to be gained by
precipitation. Mr. Osmond needed to accustom his mind to an offer of a
sort that he had not hitherto entertained, and this result must come of
itself--it was useless to try to force it. Rosier remarked that his own
situation would be in the meanwhile the most uncomfortable in the world,
and Madame Merle assured him that she felt for him. But, as she justly
declared, one couldn't have everything one wanted; she had learned that
lesson for herself. There would be no use in his writing to Gilbert
Osmond, who had charged her to tell him as much. He wished the matter
dropped for a few weeks and would himself write when he should have
anything to communicate that it might please Mr. Rosier to hear.
"He doesn't like your having spoken to Pansy, Ah, he doesn't like it at
all," said Madame Merle.
"I'm perfectly willing to give him a chance to tell me so!"
"If you do that he'll tell you more than you care to hear. Go to the
house, for the next month, as little as possible, and leave the rest to
me."
"As little as possible? Who's to measure the possibility?"
"Let me measure it. Go on Thursday evenings with the rest of the world,
but don't go at all at odd times, and don't fret about Pansy. I'll see
that she understands everything. She's a calm little nature; she'll take
it quietly."
Edward Rosier fretted about Pansy a good deal, but he did as he was
advised, and awaited another Thursday evening before returning to
Palazzo Roccanera. There had been a party at dinner, so that though he
went early the company was already tolerably numerous. Osmond, as usual,
was in the first room, near the fire, staring straight at the door, so
that, not to be distinctly uncivil, Rosier had to go and speak to him.
"I'm glad that you can take a hint," Pansy's father said, slightly
closing his keen, conscious eyes.
"I take no hints. But I took a message, as I supposed it to be."
"You took it? Where did you take it?"
It seemed to poor Rosier he was being insulted, and he waited a moment,
asking himself how much a true lover ought to submit to. "Madame Merle
gave me, as I understood it, a message from you--to the effect that you
declined to give me the opportunity I desire, the opportunity to explain
my wishes to you." And he flattered himself he spoke rather sternly.
"I don't see what Madame Merle has to do with it. Why did you apply to
Madame Merle?"
"I asked her for an opinion--for nothing more. I did so because she had
seemed to me to know you very well."
"She doesn't know me so well as she thinks," said Osmond.
"I'm sorry for that, because she has given me some little ground for
hope."
Osmond stared into the fire a moment. "I set a great price on my
daughter."
"You can't set a higher one than I do. Don't I prove it by wishing to
marry her?"
"I wish to marry her very well," Osmond went on with a dry impertinence
which, in another mood, poor Rosier would have admired.
"Of course I pretend she'd marry well in marrying me. She couldn't
marry a man who loves her more--or whom, I may venture to add, she loves
more."
"I'm not bound to accept your theories as to whom my daughter
loves"--and Osmond looked up with a quick, cold smile.
"I'm not theorising. Your daughter has spoken."
"Not to me," Osmond continued, now bending forward a little and dropping
his eyes to his boot-toes.
"I have her promise, sir!" cried Rosier with the sharpness of
exasperation.
As their voices had been pitched very low before, such a note attracted
some attention from the company. Osmond waited till this little movement
had subsided; then he said, all undisturbed: "I think she has no
recollection of having given it."
They had been standing with their faces to the fire, and after he had
uttered these last words the master of the house turned round again
to the room. Before Rosier had time to reply he perceived that a
gentleman--a stranger--had just come in, unannounced, according to the
Roman custom, and was about to present himself to his host. The latter
smiled blandly, but somewhat blankly; the visitor had a handsome face
and a large, fair beard, and was evidently an Englishman.
"You apparently don't recognise me," he said with a smile that expressed
more than Osmond's.
"Ah yes, now I do. I expected so little to see you."
Rosier departed and went in direct pursuit of Pansy. He sought her, as
usual, in the neighbouring room, but he again encountered Mrs. Osmond
in his path. He gave his hostess no greeting--he was too righteously
indignant, but said to her crudely: "Your husband's awfully
cold-blooded."
She gave the same mystical smile he had noticed before. "You can't
expect every one to be as hot as yourself."
"I don't pretend to be cold, but I'm cool. What has he been doing to his
daughter?"
"I've no idea."
"Don't you take any interest?" Rosier demanded with his sense that she
too was irritating.
For a moment she answered nothing; then, "No!" she said abruptly and
with a quickened light in her eyes which directly contradicted the word.
"Pardon me if I don't believe that. Where's Miss Osmond?"
"In the corner, making tea. Please leave her there."
Rosier instantly discovered his friend, who had been hidden by
intervening groups. He watched her, but her own attention was entirely
given to her occupation. "What on earth has he done to her?" he asked
again imploringly. "He declares to me she has given me up."
"She has not given you up," Isabel said in a low tone and without
looking at him.
"Ah, thank you for that! Now I'll leave her alone as long as you think
proper!"
He had hardly spoken when he saw her change colour, and became aware
that Osmond was coming toward her accompanied by the gentleman who had
just entered. He judged the latter, in spite of the advantage of good
looks and evident social experience, a little embarrassed. "Isabel,"
said her husband, "I bring you an old friend."
Mrs. Osmond's face, though it wore a smile, was, like her old friend's,
not perfectly confident. "I'm very happy to see Lord Warburton," she
said. Rosier turned away and, now that his talk with her had been
interrupted, felt absolved from the little pledge he had just taken. He
had a quick impression that Mrs. Osmond wouldn't notice what he did.
Isabel in fact, to do him justice, for some time quite ceased to observe
him. She had been startled; she hardly knew if she felt a pleasure or
a pain. Lord Warburton, however, now that he was face to face with her,
was plainly quite sure of his own sense of the matter; though his grey
eyes had still their fine original property of keeping recognition and
attestation strictly sincere. He was "heavier" than of yore and looked
older; he stood there very solidly and sensibly.
"I suppose you didn't expect to see me," he said; "I've but just
arrived. Literally, I only got here this evening. You see I've lost
no time in coming to pay you my respects. I knew you were at home on
Thursdays."
"You see the fame of your Thursdays has spread to England," Osmond
remarked to his wife.
"It's very kind of Lord Warburton to come so soon; we're greatly
flattered," Isabel said.
"Ah well, it's better than stopping in one of those horrible inns,"
Osmond went on.
"The hotel seems very good; I think it's the same at which I saw you
four years since. You know it was here in Rome that we first met; it's a
long time ago. Do you remember where I bade you good-bye?" his lordship
asked of his hostess. "It was in the Capitol, in the first room."
"I remember that myself," said Osmond. "I was there at the time."
"Yes, I remember you there. I was very sorry to leave Rome--so sorry
that, somehow or other, it became almost a dismal memory, and I've never
cared to come back till to-day. But I knew you were living here," her
old friend went on to Isabel, "and I assure you I've often thought of
you. It must be a charming place to live in," he added with a look,
round him, at her established home, in which she might have caught the
dim ghost of his old ruefulness.
"We should have been glad to see you at any time," Osmond observed with
propriety.
"Thank you very much. I haven't been out of England since then. Till a
month ago I really supposed my travels over."
"I've heard of you from time to time," said Isabel, who had already,
with her rare capacity for such inward feats, taken the measure of what
meeting him again meant for her.
"I hope you've heard no harm. My life has been a remarkably complete
blank."
"Like the good reigns in history," Osmond suggested. He appeared to
think his duties as a host now terminated--he had performed them so
conscientiously. Nothing could have been more adequate, more
nicely measured, than his courtesy to his wife's old friend. It
was punctilious, it was explicit, it was everything but natural--a
deficiency which Lord Warburton, who, himself, had on the whole a good
deal of nature, may be supposed to have perceived. "I'll leave you and
Mrs. Osmond together," he added. "You have reminiscences into which I
don't enter."
"I'm afraid you lose a good deal!" Lord Warburton called after him, as
he moved away, in a tone which perhaps betrayed overmuch an appreciation
of his generosity. Then the visitor turned on Isabel the deeper, the
deepest, consciousness of his look, which gradually became more serious.
"I'm really very glad to see you."
"It's very pleasant. You're very kind."
"Do you know that you're changed--a little?"
She just hesitated. "Yes--a good deal."
"I don't mean for the worse, of course; and yet how can I say for the
better?"
"I think I shall have no scruple in saying that to YOU," she bravely
returned.
"Ah well, for me--it's a long time. It would be a pity there shouldn't
be something to show for it." They sat down and she asked him about
his sisters, with other enquiries of a somewhat perfunctory kind. He
answered her questions as if they interested him, and in a few moments
she saw--or believed she saw--that he would press with less of his
whole weight than of yore. Time had breathed upon his heart and, without
chilling it, given it a relieved sense of having taken the air. Isabel
felt her usual esteem for Time rise at a bound. Her friend's manner was
certainly that of a contented man, one who would rather like people, or
like her at least, to know him for such. "There's something I must tell
you without more delay," he resumed. "I've brought Ralph Touchett with
me."
"Brought him with you?" Isabel's surprise was great.
"He's at the hotel; he was too tired to come out and has gone to bed."
"I'll go to see him," she immediately said.
"That's exactly what I hoped you'd do. I had an idea you hadn't seen
much of him since your marriage, that in fact your relations were a--a
little more formal. That's why I hesitated--like an awkward Briton."
"I'm as fond of Ralph as ever," Isabel answered. "But why has he come to
Rome?" The declaration was very gentle, the question a little sharp.
"Because he's very far gone, Mrs. Osmond."
"Rome then is no place for him. I heard from him that he had determined
to give up his custom of wintering abroad and to remain in England,
indoors, in what he called an artificial climate."
"Poor fellow, he doesn't succeed with the artificial! I went to see him
three weeks ago, at Gardencourt, and found him thoroughly ill. He has
been getting worse every year, and now he has no strength left. He
smokes no more cigarettes! He had got up an artificial climate indeed;
the house was as hot as Calcutta. Nevertheless he had suddenly taken it
into his head to start for Sicily. I didn't believe in it--neither did
the doctors, nor any of his friends. His mother, as I suppose you know,
is in America, so there was no one to prevent him. He stuck to his idea
that it would be the saving of him to spend the winter at Catania.
He said he could take servants and furniture, could make himself
comfortable, but in point of fact he hasn't brought anything. I wanted
him at least to go by sea, to save fatigue; but he said he hated the sea
and wished to stop at Rome. After that, though I thought it all rubbish,
I made up my mind to come with him. I'm acting as--what do you call it
in America?--as a kind of moderator. Poor Ralph's very moderate now. We
left England a fortnight ago, and he has been very bad on the way. He
can't keep warm, and the further south we come the more he feels the
cold. He has got rather a good man, but I'm afraid he's beyond human
help. I wanted him to take with him some clever fellow--I mean some
sharp young doctor; but he wouldn't hear of it. If you don't mind my
saying so, I think it was a most extraordinary time for Mrs. Touchett to
decide on going to America."
Isabel had listened eagerly; her face was full of pain and wonder. "My
aunt does that at fixed periods and lets nothing turn her aside. When
the date comes round she starts; I think she'd have started if Ralph had
been dying."
"I sometimes think he IS dying," Lord Warburton said.
Isabel sprang up. "I'll go to him then now."
He checked her; he was a little disconcerted at the quick effect of his
words. "I don't mean I thought so to-night. On the contrary, to-day,
in the train, he seemed particularly well; the idea of our reaching
Rome--he's very fond of Rome, you know--gave him strength. An hour ago,
when I bade him goodnight, he told me he was very tired, but very happy.
Go to him in the morning; that's all I mean. I didn't tell him I was
coming here; I didn't decide to till after we had separated. Then I
remembered he had told me you had an evening, and that it was this very
Thursday. It occurred to me to come in and tell you he's here, and let
you know you had perhaps better not wait for him to call. I think he
said he hadn't written to you." There was no need of Isabel's declaring
that she would act upon Lord Warburton's information; she looked, as she
sat there, like a winged creature held back. "Let alone that I wanted to
see you for myself," her visitor gallantly added.
"I don't understand Ralph's plan; it seems to me very wild," she said.
"I was glad to think of him between those thick walls at Gardencourt."
"He was completely alone there; the thick walls were his only company."
"You went to see him; you've been extremely kind."
"Oh dear, I had nothing to do," said Lord Warburton.
"We hear, on the contrary, that you're doing great things. Every one
speaks of you as a great statesman, and I'm perpetually seeing your name
in the Times, which, by the way, doesn't appear to hold it in reverence.
You're apparently as wild a radical as ever."
"I don't feel nearly so wild; you know the world has come round to me.
Touchett and I have kept up a sort of parliamentary debate all the way
from London. I tell him he's the last of the Tories, and he calls me
the King of the Goths--says I have, down to the details of my personal
appearance, every sign of the brute. So you see there's life in him
yet."
Isabel had many questions to ask about Ralph, but she abstained from
asking them all. She would see for herself on the morrow. She perceived
that after a little Lord Warburton would tire of that subject--he had a
conception of other possible topics. She was more and more able to say
to herself that he had recovered, and, what is more to the point, she
was able to say it without bitterness. He had been for her, of old,
such an image of urgency, of insistence, of something to be resisted
and reasoned with, that his reappearance at first menaced her with a new
trouble. But she was now reassured; she could see he only wished to live
with her on good terms, that she was to understand he had forgiven her
and was incapable of the bad taste of making pointed allusions. This was
not a form of revenge, of course; she had no suspicion of his wishing to
punish her by an exhibition of disillusionment; she did him the justice
to believe it had simply occurred to him that she would now take a
good-natured interest in knowing he was resigned. It was the resignation
of a healthy, manly nature, in which sentimental wounds could never
fester. British politics had cured him; she had known they would. She
gave an envious thought to the happier lot of men, who are always free
to plunge into the healing waters of action. Lord Warburton of course
spoke of the past, but he spoke of it without implications; he even
went so far as to allude to their former meeting in Rome as a very jolly
time. And he told her he had been immensely interested in hearing of her
marriage and that it was a great pleasure for him to make Mr. Osmond's
acquaintance--since he could hardly be said to have made it on the other
occasion. He had not written to her at the time of that passage in her
history, but he didn't apologise to her for this. The only thing he
implied was that they were old friends, intimate friends. It was very
much as an intimate friend that he said to her, suddenly, after a short
pause which he had occupied in smiling, as he looked about him, like a
person amused, at a provincial entertainment, by some innocent game of
guesses--
"Well now, I suppose you're very happy and all that sort of thing?"
Isabel answered with a quick laugh; the tone of his remark struck her
almost as the accent of comedy. "Do you suppose if I were not I'd tell
you?"
"Well, I don't know. I don't see why not."
"I do then. Fortunately, however, I'm very happy."
"You've got an awfully good house."
"Yes, it's very pleasant. But that's not my merit--it's my husband's."
"You mean he has arranged it?"
"Yes, it was nothing when we came."
"He must be very clever."
"He has a genius for upholstery," said Isabel.
"There's a great rage for that sort of thing now. But you must have a
taste of your own."
"I enjoy things when they're done, but I've no ideas. I can never
propose anything."
"Do you mean you accept what others propose?"
"Very willingly, for the most part."
"That's a good thing to know. I shall propose to you something."
"It will be very kind. I must say, however, that I've in a few small
ways a certain initiative. I should like for instance to introduce you
to some of these people."
"Oh, please don't; I prefer sitting here. Unless it be to that young
lady in the blue dress. She has a charming face."
"The one talking to the rosy young man? That's my husband's daughter."
"Lucky man, your husband. What a dear little maid!"
"You must make her acquaintance."
"In a moment--with pleasure. I like looking at her from here." He ceased
to look at her, however, very soon; his eyes constantly reverted to Mrs.
Osmond. "Do you know I was wrong just now in saying you had changed?" he
presently went on. "You seem to me, after all, very much the same."
"And yet I find it a great change to be married," said Isabel with mild
gaiety.
"It affects most people more than it has affected you. You see I haven't
gone in for that."
"It rather surprises me."
"You ought to understand it, Mrs. Osmond. But I do want to marry," he
added more simply.
"It ought to be very easy," Isabel said, rising--after which she
reflected, with a pang perhaps too visible, that she was hardly the
person to say this. It was perhaps because Lord Warburton divined the
pang that he generously forbore to call her attention to her not having
contributed then to the facility.
Edward Rosier had meanwhile seated himself on an ottoman beside Pansy's
tea-table. He pretended at first to talk to her about trifles, and she
asked him who was the new gentleman conversing with her stepmother.
"He's an English lord," said Rosier. "I don't know more."
"I wonder if he'll have some tea. The English are so fond of tea."
"Never mind that; I've something particular to say to you."
"Don't speak so loud every one will hear," said Pansy.
"They won't hear if you continue to look that way: as if your only
thought in life was the wish the kettle would boil."
"It has just been filled; the servants never know!"--and she sighed with
the weight of her responsibility.
"Do you know what your father said to me just now? That you didn't mean
what you said a week ago."
"I don't mean everything I say. How can a young girl do that? But I mean
what I say to you."
"He told me you had forgotten me."
"Ah no, I don't forget," said Pansy, showing her pretty teeth in a fixed
smile.
"Then everything's just the very same?"
"Ah no, not the very same. Papa has been terribly severe."
"What has he done to you?"
"He asked me what you had done to me, and I told him everything. Then he
forbade me to marry you."
"You needn't mind that."
"Oh yes, I must indeed. I can't disobey papa."
"Not for one who loves you as I do, and whom you pretend to love?"
She raised the lid of the tea-pot, gazing into this vessel for a moment;
then she dropped six words into its aromatic depths. "I love you just as
much."
"What good will that do me?"
"Ah," said Pansy, raising her sweet, vague eyes, "I don't know that."
"You disappoint me," groaned poor Rosier.
She was silent a little; she handed a tea-cup to a servant. "Please
don't talk any more."
"Is this to be all my satisfaction?"
"Papa said I was not to talk with you."
"Do you sacrifice me like that? Ah, it's too much!"
"I wish you'd wait a little," said the girl in a voice just distinct
enough to betray a quaver.
"Of course I'll wait if you'll give me hope. But you take my life away."
"I'll not give you up--oh no!" Pansy went on.
"He'll try and make you marry some one else."
"I'll never do that."
"What then are we to wait for?"
She hesitated again. "I'll speak to Mrs. Osmond and she'll help us." It
was in this manner that she for the most part designated her stepmother.
"She won't help us much. She's afraid."
"Afraid of what?"
"Of your father, I suppose."
Pansy shook her little head. "She's not afraid of any one. We must have
patience."
"Ah, that's an awful word," Rosier groaned; he was deeply disconcerted.
Oblivious of the customs of good society, he dropped his head into his
hands and, supporting it with a melancholy grace, sat staring at the
carpet. Presently he became aware of a good deal of movement about
him and, as he looked up, saw Pansy making a curtsey--it was still her
little curtsey of the convent--to the English lord whom Mrs. Osmond had
introduced.
| Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the "ficelle" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, "Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a "representative" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an "intrinsic value" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from "using" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of "intrinsic value" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon? | analysis |
It will probably not surprise the reflective reader that Ralph Touchett
should have seen less of his cousin since her marriage than he had done
before that event--an event of which he took such a view as could hardly
prove a confirmation of intimacy. He had uttered his thought, as we
know, and after this had held his peace, Isabel not having invited him
to resume a discussion which marked an era in their relations. That
discussion had made a difference--the difference he feared rather than
the one he hoped. It had not chilled the girl's zeal in carrying out her
engagement, but it had come dangerously near to spoiling a friendship.
No reference was ever again made between them to Ralph's opinion of
Gilbert Osmond, and by surrounding this topic with a sacred silence they
managed to preserve a semblance of reciprocal frankness. But there was a
difference, as Ralph often said to himself--there was a difference. She
had not forgiven him, she never would forgive him: that was all he had
gained. She thought she had forgiven him; she believed she didn't care;
and as she was both very generous and very proud these convictions
represented a certain reality. But whether or no the event should
justify him he would virtually have done her a wrong, and the wrong was
of the sort that women remember best. As Osmond's wife she could never
again be his friend. If in this character she should enjoy the felicity
she expected, she would have nothing but contempt for the man who had
attempted, in advance, to undermine a blessing so dear; and if on the
other hand his warning should be justified the vow she had taken that he
should never know it would lay upon her spirit such a burden as to make
her hate him. So dismal had been, during the year that followed
his cousin's marriage, Ralph's prevision of the future; and if his
meditations appear morbid we must remember he was not in the bloom
of health. He consoled himself as he might by behaving (as he deemed)
beautifully, and was present at the ceremony by which Isabel was united
to Mr. Osmond, and which was performed in Florence in the month of
June. He learned from his mother that Isabel at first had thought of
celebrating her nuptials in her native land, but that as simplicity was
what she chiefly desired to secure she had finally decided, in spite
of Osmond's professed willingness to make a journey of any length, that
this characteristic would be best embodied in their being married by the
nearest clergyman in the shortest time. The thing was done therefore at
the little American chapel, on a very hot day, in the presence only of
Mrs. Touchett and her son, of Pansy Osmond and the Countess Gemini. That
severity in the proceedings of which I just spoke was in part the result
of the absence of two persons who might have been looked for on the
occasion and who would have lent it a certain richness. Madame Merle
had been invited, but Madame Merle, who was unable to leave Rome, had
written a gracious letter of excuses. Henrietta Stackpole had not been
invited, as her departure from America, announced to Isabel by Mr.
Goodwood, was in fact frustrated by the duties of her profession; but
she had sent a letter, less gracious than Madame Merle's, intimating
that, had she been able to cross the Atlantic, she would have been
present not only as a witness but as a critic. Her return to Europe had
taken place somewhat later, and she had effected a meeting with Isabel
in the autumn, in Paris, when she had indulged--perhaps a trifle too
freely--her critical genius. Poor Osmond, who was chiefly the subject
of it, had protested so sharply that Henrietta was obliged to declare to
Isabel that she had taken a step which put a barrier between them. "It
isn't in the least that you've married--it is that you have married
HIM," she had deemed it her duty to remark; agreeing, it will be seen,
much more with Ralph Touchett than she suspected, though she had few of
his hesitations and compunctions. Henrietta's second visit to Europe,
however, was not apparently to have been made in vain; for just at the
moment when Osmond had declared to Isabel that he really must object to
that newspaper-woman, and Isabel had answered that it seemed to her he
took Henrietta too hard, the good Mr. Bantling had appeared upon
the scene and proposed that they should take a run down to Spain.
Henrietta's letters from Spain had proved the most acceptable she
had yet published, and there had been one in especial, dated from the
Alhambra and entitled 'Moors and Moonlight,' which generally passed for
her masterpiece. Isabel had been secretly disappointed at her husband's
not seeing his way simply to take the poor girl for funny. She even
wondered if his sense of fun, or of the funny--which would be his sense
of humour, wouldn't it?--were by chance defective. Of course she herself
looked at the matter as a person whose present happiness had nothing
to grudge to Henrietta's violated conscience. Osmond had thought their
alliance a kind of monstrosity; he couldn't imagine what they had in
common. For him, Mr. Bantling's fellow tourist was simply the most
vulgar of women, and he had also pronounced her the most abandoned.
Against this latter clause of the verdict Isabel had appealed with an
ardour that had made him wonder afresh at the oddity of some of his
wife's tastes. Isabel could explain it only by saying that she liked to
know people who were as different as possible from herself. "Why
then don't you make the acquaintance of your washerwoman?" Osmond
had enquired; to which Isabel had answered that she was afraid her
washerwoman wouldn't care for her. Now Henrietta cared so much.
Ralph had seen nothing of her for the greater part of the two years that
had followed her marriage; the winter that formed the beginning of her
residence in Rome he had spent again at San Remo, where he had been
joined in the spring by his mother, who afterwards had gone with him
to England, to see what they were doing at the bank--an operation she
couldn't induce him to perform. Ralph had taken a lease of his house at
San Remo, a small villa which he had occupied still another winter; but
late in the month of April of this second year he had come down to Rome.
It was the first time since her marriage that he had stood face to face
with Isabel; his desire to see her again was then of the keenest. She
had written to him from time to time, but her letters told him nothing
he wanted to know. He had asked his mother what she was making of her
life, and his mother had simply answered that she supposed she was
making the best of it. Mrs. Touchett had not the imagination that
communes with the unseen, and she now pretended to no intimacy with
her niece, whom she rarely encountered. This young woman appeared to
be living in a sufficiently honourable way, but Mrs. Touchett still
remained of the opinion that her marriage had been a shabby affair. It
had given her no pleasure to think of Isabel's establishment, which she
was sure was a very lame business. From time to time, in Florence, she
rubbed against the Countess Gemini, doing her best always to minimise
the contact; and the Countess reminded her of Osmond, who made her
think of Isabel. The Countess was less talked of in these days; but Mrs.
Touchett augured no good of that: it only proved how she had been talked
of before. There was a more direct suggestion of Isabel in the person
of Madame Merle; but Madame Merle's relations with Mrs. Touchett had
undergone a perceptible change. Isabel's aunt had told her, without
circumlocution, that she had played too ingenious a part; and Madame
Merle, who never quarrelled with any one, who appeared to think no one
worth it, and who had performed the miracle of living, more or less,
for several years with Mrs. Touchett and showing no symptom of
irritation--Madame Merle now took a very high tone and declared that
this was an accusation from which she couldn't stoop to defend herself.
She added, however (without stooping), that her behaviour had been only
too simple, that she had believed only what she saw, that she saw Isabel
was not eager to marry and Osmond not eager to please (his repeated
visits had been nothing; he was boring himself to death on his hill-top
and he came merely for amusement). Isabel had kept her sentiments to
herself, and her journey to Greece and Egypt had effectually thrown
dust in her companion's eyes. Madame Merle accepted the event--she was
unprepared to think of it as a scandal; but that she had played any part
in it, double or single, was an imputation against which she proudly
protested. It was doubtless in consequence of Mrs. Touchett's attitude,
and of the injury it offered to habits consecrated by many charming
seasons, that Madame Merle had, after this, chosen to pass many months
in England, where her credit was quite unimpaired. Mrs. Touchett had
done her a wrong; there are some things that can't be forgiven. But
Madame Merle suffered in silence; there was always something exquisite
in her dignity.
Ralph, as I say, had wished to see for himself; but while engaged in
this pursuit he had yet felt afresh what a fool he had been to put the
girl on her guard. He had played the wrong card, and now he had lost the
game. He should see nothing, he should learn nothing; for him she would
always wear a mask. His true line would have been to profess delight in
her union, so that later, when, as Ralph phrased it, the bottom should
fall out of it, she might have the pleasure of saying to him that he
had been a goose. He would gladly have consented to pass for a goose in
order to know Isabel's real situation. At present, however, she neither
taunted him with his fallacies nor pretended that her own confidence was
justified; if she wore a mask it completely covered her face. There was
something fixed and mechanical in the serenity painted on it; this was
not an expression, Ralph said--it was a representation, it was even an
advertisement. She had lost her child; that was a sorrow, but it was a
sorrow she scarcely spoke of; there was more to say about it than she
could say to Ralph. It belonged to the past, moreover; it had occurred
six months before and she had already laid aside the tokens of mourning.
She appeared to be leading the life of the world; Ralph heard her spoken
of as having a "charming position." He observed that she produced the
impression of being peculiarly enviable, that it was supposed, among
many people, to be a privilege even to know her. Her house was not open
to every one, and she had an evening in the week to which people
were not invited as a matter of course. She lived with a certain
magnificence, but you needed to be a member of her circle to perceive
it; for there was nothing to gape at, nothing to criticise, nothing even
to admire, in the daily proceedings of Mr. and Mrs. Osmond. Ralph, in
all this, recognised the hand of the master; for he knew that Isabel had
no faculty for producing studied impressions. She struck him as having
a great love of movement, of gaiety, of late hours, of long rides, of
fatigue; an eagerness to be entertained, to be interested, even to be
bored, to make acquaintances, to see people who were talked about, to
explore the neighbourhood of Rome, to enter into relation with certain
of the mustiest relics of its old society. In all this there was
much less discrimination than in that desire for comprehensiveness of
development on which he had been used to exercise his wit. There was
a kind of violence in some of her impulses, of crudity in some of her
experiments, which took him by surprise: it seemed to him that she even
spoke faster, moved faster, breathed faster, than before her marriage.
Certainly she had fallen into exaggerations--she who used to care so
much for the pure truth; and whereas of old she had a great delight
in good-humoured argument, in intellectual play (she never looked
so charming as when in the genial heat of discussion she received a
crushing blow full in the face and brushed it away as a feather), she
appeared now to think there was nothing worth people's either differing
about or agreeing upon. Of old she had been curious, and now she was
indifferent, and yet in spite of her indifference her activity was
greater than ever. Slender still, but lovelier than before, she had
gained no great maturity of aspect; yet there was an amplitude and a
brilliancy in her personal arrangements that gave a touch of insolence
to her beauty. Poor human-hearted Isabel, what perversity had bitten
her? Her light step drew a mass of drapery behind it; her intelligent
head sustained a majesty of ornament. The free, keen girl had become
quite another person; what he saw was the fine lady who was supposed to
represent something. What did Isabel represent? Ralph asked himself;
and he could only answer by saying that she represented Gilbert Osmond.
"Good heavens, what a function!" he then woefully exclaimed. He was lost
in wonder at the mystery of things.
He recognised Osmond, as I say; he recognised him at every turn. He
saw how he kept all things within limits; how he adjusted, regulated,
animated their manner of life. Osmond was in his element; at last he had
material to work with. He always had an eye to effect, and his effects
were deeply calculated. They were produced by no vulgar means, but the
motive was as vulgar as the art was great. To surround his interior
with a sort of invidious sanctity, to tantalise society with a sense
of exclusion, to make people believe his house was different from every
other, to impart to the face that he presented to the world a cold
originality--this was the ingenious effort of the personage to whom
Isabel had attributed a superior morality. "He works with superior
material," Ralph said to himself; "it's rich abundance compared with his
former resources." Ralph was a clever man; but Ralph had never--to his
own sense--been so clever as when he observed, in petto, that under the
guise of caring only for intrinsic values Osmond lived exclusively for
the world. Far from being its master as he pretended to be, he was
its very humble servant, and the degree of its attention was his only
measure of success. He lived with his eye on it from morning till night,
and the world was so stupid it never suspected the trick. Everything
he did was pose--pose so subtly considered that if one were not on the
lookout one mistook it for impulse. Ralph had never met a man who lived
so much in the land of consideration. His tastes, his studies, his
accomplishments, his collections, were all for a purpose. His life on
his hill-top at Florence had been the conscious attitude of years. His
solitude, his ennui, his love for his daughter, his good manners, his
bad manners, were so many features of a mental image constantly present
to him as a model of impertinence and mystification. His ambition was
not to please the world, but to please himself by exciting the world's
curiosity and then declining to satisfy it. It had made him feel great,
ever, to play the world a trick. The thing he had done in his life most
directly to please himself was his marrying Miss Archer; though in this
case indeed the gullible world was in a manner embodied in poor Isabel,
who had been mystified to the top of her bent. Ralph of course found
a fitness in being consistent; he had embraced a creed, and as he had
suffered for it he could not in honour forsake it. I give this little
sketch of its articles for what they may at the time have been worth.
It was certain that he was very skilful in fitting the facts to his
theory--even the fact that during the month he spent in Rome at this
period the husband of the woman he loved appeared to regard him not in
the least as an enemy.
For Gilbert Osmond Ralph had not now that importance. It was not that he
had the importance of a friend; it was rather that he had none at all.
He was Isabel's cousin and he was rather unpleasantly ill--it was on
this basis that Osmond treated with him. He made the proper enquiries,
asked about his health, about Mrs. Touchett, about his opinion of winter
climates, whether he were comfortable at his hotel. He addressed him, on
the few occasions of their meeting, not a word that was not necessary;
but his manner had always the urbanity proper to conscious success in
the presence of conscious failure. For all this, Ralph had had, toward
the end, a sharp inward vision of Osmond's making it of small ease to
his wife that she should continue to receive Mr. Touchett. He was not
jealous--he had not that excuse; no one could be jealous of Ralph. But
he made Isabel pay for her old-time kindness, of which so much was
still left; and as Ralph had no idea of her paying too much, so when his
suspicion had become sharp, he had taken himself off. In doing so he
had deprived Isabel of a very interesting occupation: she had been
constantly wondering what fine principle was keeping him alive. She had
decided that it was his love of conversation; his conversation had been
better than ever. He had given up walking; he was no longer a humorous
stroller. He sat all day in a chair--almost any chair would serve, and
was so dependent on what you would do for him that, had not his talk
been highly contemplative, you might have thought he was blind. The
reader already knows more about him than Isabel was ever to know, and
the reader may therefore be given the key to the mystery. What kept
Ralph alive was simply the fact that he had not yet seen enough of
the person in the world in whom he was most interested: he was not yet
satisfied. There was more to come; he couldn't make up his mind to lose
that. He wanted to see what she would make of her husband--or what her
husband would make of her. This was only the first act of the drama, and
he was determined to sit out the performance. His determination had held
good; it had kept him going some eighteen months more, till the time of
his return to Rome with Lord Warburton. It had given him indeed such an
air of intending to live indefinitely that Mrs. Touchett, though more
accessible to confusions of thought in the matter of this strange,
unremunerative--and unremunerated--son of hers than she had ever been
before, had, as we have learned, not scrupled to embark for a distant
land. If Ralph had been kept alive by suspense it was with a good deal
of the same emotion--the excitement of wondering in what state she
should find him--that Isabel mounted to his apartment the day after Lord
Warburton had notified her of his arrival in Rome.
She spent an hour with him; it was the first of several visits. Gilbert
Osmond called on him punctually, and on their sending their carriage for
him Ralph came more than once to Palazzo Roccanera. A fortnight elapsed,
at the end of which Ralph announced to Lord Warburton that he thought
after all he wouldn't go to Sicily. The two men had been dining together
after a day spent by the latter in ranging about the Campagna. They had
left the table, and Warburton, before the chimney, was lighting a cigar,
which he instantly removed from his lips.
"Won't go to Sicily? Where then will you go?"
"Well, I guess I won't go anywhere," said Ralph, from the sofa, all
shamelessly.
"Do you mean you'll return to England?"
"Oh dear no; I'll stay in Rome."
"Rome won't do for you. Rome's not warm enough."
"It will have to do. I'll make it do. See how well I've been."
Lord Warburton looked at him a while, puffing a cigar and as if trying
to see it. "You've been better than you were on the journey, certainly.
I wonder how you lived through that. But I don't understand your
condition. I recommend you to try Sicily."
"I can't try," said poor Ralph. "I've done trying. I can't move further.
I can't face that journey. Fancy me between Scylla and Charybdis! I
don't want to die on the Sicilian plains--to be snatched away, like
Proserpine in the same locality, to the Plutonian shades."
"What the deuce then did you come for?" his lordship enquired.
"Because the idea took me. I see it won't do. It really doesn't
matter where I am now. I've exhausted all remedies, I've swallowed
all climates. As I'm here I'll stay. I haven't a single cousin in
Sicily--much less a married one."
"Your cousin's certainly an inducement. But what does the doctor say?"
"I haven't asked him, and I don't care a fig. If I die here Mrs. Osmond
will bury me. But I shall not die here."
"I hope not." Lord Warburton continued to smoke reflectively. "Well,
I must say," he resumed, "for myself I'm very glad you don't insist on
Sicily. I had a horror of that journey."
"Ah, but for you it needn't have mattered. I had no idea of dragging you
in my train."
"I certainly didn't mean to let you go alone."
"My dear Warburton, I never expected you to come further than this,"
Ralph cried.
"I should have gone with you and seen you settled," said Lord Warburton.
"You're a very good Christian. You're a very kind man."
"Then I should have come back here."
"And then you'd have gone to England."
"No, no; I should have stayed."
"Well," said Ralph, "if that's what we are both up to, I don't see where
Sicily comes in!"
His companion was silent; he sat staring at the fire. At last, looking
up, "I say, tell me this," he broke out; "did you really mean to go to
Sicily when we started?"
"Ah, vous m'en demandez trop! Let me put a question first. Did you come
with me quite--platonically?"
"I don't know what you mean by that. I wanted to come abroad."
"I suspect we've each been playing our little game."
"Speak for yourself. I made no secret whatever of my desiring to be here
a while."
"Yes, I remember you said you wished to see the Minister of Foreign
Affairs."
"I've seen him three times. He's very amusing."
"I think you've forgotten what you came for," said Ralph.
"Perhaps I have," his companion answered rather gravely.
These two were gentlemen of a race which is not distinguished by the
absence of reserve, and they had travelled together from London to Rome
without an allusion to matters that were uppermost in the mind of each.
There was an old subject they had once discussed, but it had lost its
recognised place in their attention, and even after their arrival
in Rome, where many things led back to it, they had kept the same
half-diffident, half-confident silence.
"I recommend you to get the doctor's consent, all the same," Lord
Warburton went on, abruptly, after an interval.
"The doctor's consent will spoil it. I never have it when I can help
it."
"What then does Mrs. Osmond think?" Ralph's friend demanded. "I've not
told her. She'll probably say that Rome's too cold and even offer to go
with me to Catania. She's capable of that."
"In your place I should like it."
"Her husband won't like it."
"Ah well, I can fancy that; though it seems to me you're not bound to
mind his likings. They're his affair."
"I don't want to make any more trouble between them," said Ralph.
"Is there so much already?"
"There's complete preparation for it. Her going off with me would make
the explosion. Osmond isn't fond of his wife's cousin."
"Then of course he'd make a row. But won't he make a row if you stop
here?"
"That's what I want to see. He made one the last time I was in Rome, and
then I thought it my duty to disappear. Now I think it's my duty to stop
and defend her."
"My dear Touchett, your defensive powers--!" Lord Warburton began with
a smile. But he saw something in his companion's face that checked him.
"Your duty, in these premises, seems to me rather a nice question," he
observed instead.
Ralph for a short time answered nothing. "It's true that my defensive
powers are small," he returned at last; "but as my aggressive ones are
still smaller Osmond may after all not think me worth his gunpowder. At
any rate," he added, "there are things I'm curious to see."
"You're sacrificing your health to your curiosity then?"
"I'm not much interested in my health, and I'm deeply interested in Mrs.
Osmond."
"So am I. But not as I once was," Lord Warburton added quickly. This was
one of the allusions he had not hitherto found occasion to make.
"Does she strike you as very happy?" Ralph enquired, emboldened by this
confidence.
"Well, I don't know; I've hardly thought. She told me the other night
she was happy."
"Ah, she told YOU, of course," Ralph exclaimed, smiling.
"I don't know that. It seems to me I was rather the sort of person she
might have complained to."
"Complained? She'll never complain. She has done it--what she HAS
done--and she knows it. She'll complain to you least of all. She's very
careful."
"She needn't be. I don't mean to make love to her again."
"I'm delighted to hear it. There can be no doubt at least of YOUR duty."
"Ah no," said Lord Warburton gravely; "none!"
"Permit me to ask," Ralph went on, "whether it's to bring out the fact
that you don't mean to make love to her that you're so very civil to the
little girl?"
Lord Warburton gave a slight start; he got up and stood before the fire,
looking at it hard. "Does that strike you as very ridiculous?"
"Ridiculous? Not in the least, if you really like her."
"I think her a delightful little person. I don't know when a girl of
that age has pleased me more."
"She's a charming creature. Ah, she at least is genuine."
"Of course there's the difference in our ages--more than twenty years."
"My dear Warburton," said Ralph, "are you serious?"
"Perfectly serious--as far as I've got."
"I'm very glad. And, heaven help us," cried Ralph, "how cheered-up old
Osmond will be!"
His companion frowned. "I say, don't spoil it. I shouldn't propose for
his daughter to please HIM."
"He'll have the perversity to be pleased all the same."
"He's not so fond of me as that," said his lordship.
"As that? My dear Warburton, the drawback of your position is that
people needn't be fond of you at all to wish to be connected with you.
Now, with me in such a case, I should have the happy confidence that
they loved me."
Lord Warburton seemed scarcely in the mood for doing justice to general
axioms--he was thinking of a special case. "Do you judge she'll be
pleased?"
"The girl herself? Delighted, surely."
"No, no; I mean Mrs. Osmond."
Ralph looked at him a moment. "My dear fellow, what has she to do with
it?"
"Whatever she chooses. She's very fond of Pansy."
"Very true--very true." And Ralph slowly got up. "It's an interesting
question--how far her fondness for Pansy will carry her." He stood there
a moment with his hands in his pockets and rather a clouded brow. "I
hope, you know, that you're very--very sure. The deuce!" he broke off.
"I don't know how to say it."
"Yes, you do; you know how to say everything."
"Well, it's awkward. I hope you're sure that among Miss Osmond's merits
her being--a--so near her stepmother isn't a leading one?"
"Good heavens, Touchett!" cried Lord Warburton angrily, "for what do you
take me?"
| In this chapter, we get Ralph's view of Isabel's marriage: he feels that she wears a mask. He has a theory about her unhappiness and how she is only playing the part of a happy wife, but he knows that she would never tell him if this were the case. The relations between Ralph and Isabel have cooled significantly - they always feel somewhat formal, and Ralph notices a definite difference. He feels that Isabel will never forgive him for having insulted her husband. Ralph did manage to make it to the wedding. The ceremony was very small: only Countess Gemini, Mrs. Touchett and Pansy were there to witness it. Henrietta had been critical of Mr. Osmond as well, and Mr. Osmond did not like Henrietta. Mrs. Touchett had only formal and distant relations with Isabel, and she had also broken her friendship with Madame Merle. Madame Merle acted as if Mrs. Touchett had offended her, pretending that she had simply not noticed Isabel had felt affectionate towards Gilbert Osmond during their travels together. We learn that Isabel has had a child, but she has also lost it. The life she leads gives all the appearance of being a successful one: from the outside, there was nothing to gape at or criticize. Ralph though recognizes this appearance as the "hand of the master". He notices that Isabel acts in too exaggerated a manner sometimes, and that she seems less curious, more indifferent. He feels that Isabel gives the appearance of a fine lady who is supposed to represent something -- namely, Gilbert Osmond. He realizes that Osmond had never had material with which express himself, but he had patiently waited. Isabel now serves the function of that material. But even though such material is very fine, Ralph thinks to himself, the thing being represented is absolutely vulgar. Ralph realizes that Osmond had given the appearance of caring for intrinsic values, but in actual fact, he lived for what others thought of him. His purpose was to project an image of impertinence and mystification - to make the world feel as if he were superior to it. His ambition was not to please the world, but to please himself by exciting the world's curiosity and then declining to satisfy it," the narrator tells us of Ralph's theory about Osmond. Generally speaking Osmond does not seem to think Ralph is important enough to be disliked. However, once when Ralph stayed for too long in Rome, he knew that Osmond began to protest. Ralph then left so as not to disturb the relations between the couple. However, in a conversation with Lord Warburton, Ralph declares his intention to stay on, to see if Osmond will again protest. Also in this conversation, Lord Warburton and Ralph both intimate that they originally set upon their journey to see Isabel rather than to journey further south, as they had ostensibly planned to do. Ralph asks Warburton if he is trying to prove to Isabel that he does not intend to "make love to her" by showing interest in Pansy. Warburton wonders if Isabel will be pleased that he is showing interest in Pansy | summary |
It will probably not surprise the reflective reader that Ralph Touchett
should have seen less of his cousin since her marriage than he had done
before that event--an event of which he took such a view as could hardly
prove a confirmation of intimacy. He had uttered his thought, as we
know, and after this had held his peace, Isabel not having invited him
to resume a discussion which marked an era in their relations. That
discussion had made a difference--the difference he feared rather than
the one he hoped. It had not chilled the girl's zeal in carrying out her
engagement, but it had come dangerously near to spoiling a friendship.
No reference was ever again made between them to Ralph's opinion of
Gilbert Osmond, and by surrounding this topic with a sacred silence they
managed to preserve a semblance of reciprocal frankness. But there was a
difference, as Ralph often said to himself--there was a difference. She
had not forgiven him, she never would forgive him: that was all he had
gained. She thought she had forgiven him; she believed she didn't care;
and as she was both very generous and very proud these convictions
represented a certain reality. But whether or no the event should
justify him he would virtually have done her a wrong, and the wrong was
of the sort that women remember best. As Osmond's wife she could never
again be his friend. If in this character she should enjoy the felicity
she expected, she would have nothing but contempt for the man who had
attempted, in advance, to undermine a blessing so dear; and if on the
other hand his warning should be justified the vow she had taken that he
should never know it would lay upon her spirit such a burden as to make
her hate him. So dismal had been, during the year that followed
his cousin's marriage, Ralph's prevision of the future; and if his
meditations appear morbid we must remember he was not in the bloom
of health. He consoled himself as he might by behaving (as he deemed)
beautifully, and was present at the ceremony by which Isabel was united
to Mr. Osmond, and which was performed in Florence in the month of
June. He learned from his mother that Isabel at first had thought of
celebrating her nuptials in her native land, but that as simplicity was
what she chiefly desired to secure she had finally decided, in spite
of Osmond's professed willingness to make a journey of any length, that
this characteristic would be best embodied in their being married by the
nearest clergyman in the shortest time. The thing was done therefore at
the little American chapel, on a very hot day, in the presence only of
Mrs. Touchett and her son, of Pansy Osmond and the Countess Gemini. That
severity in the proceedings of which I just spoke was in part the result
of the absence of two persons who might have been looked for on the
occasion and who would have lent it a certain richness. Madame Merle
had been invited, but Madame Merle, who was unable to leave Rome, had
written a gracious letter of excuses. Henrietta Stackpole had not been
invited, as her departure from America, announced to Isabel by Mr.
Goodwood, was in fact frustrated by the duties of her profession; but
she had sent a letter, less gracious than Madame Merle's, intimating
that, had she been able to cross the Atlantic, she would have been
present not only as a witness but as a critic. Her return to Europe had
taken place somewhat later, and she had effected a meeting with Isabel
in the autumn, in Paris, when she had indulged--perhaps a trifle too
freely--her critical genius. Poor Osmond, who was chiefly the subject
of it, had protested so sharply that Henrietta was obliged to declare to
Isabel that she had taken a step which put a barrier between them. "It
isn't in the least that you've married--it is that you have married
HIM," she had deemed it her duty to remark; agreeing, it will be seen,
much more with Ralph Touchett than she suspected, though she had few of
his hesitations and compunctions. Henrietta's second visit to Europe,
however, was not apparently to have been made in vain; for just at the
moment when Osmond had declared to Isabel that he really must object to
that newspaper-woman, and Isabel had answered that it seemed to her he
took Henrietta too hard, the good Mr. Bantling had appeared upon
the scene and proposed that they should take a run down to Spain.
Henrietta's letters from Spain had proved the most acceptable she
had yet published, and there had been one in especial, dated from the
Alhambra and entitled 'Moors and Moonlight,' which generally passed for
her masterpiece. Isabel had been secretly disappointed at her husband's
not seeing his way simply to take the poor girl for funny. She even
wondered if his sense of fun, or of the funny--which would be his sense
of humour, wouldn't it?--were by chance defective. Of course she herself
looked at the matter as a person whose present happiness had nothing
to grudge to Henrietta's violated conscience. Osmond had thought their
alliance a kind of monstrosity; he couldn't imagine what they had in
common. For him, Mr. Bantling's fellow tourist was simply the most
vulgar of women, and he had also pronounced her the most abandoned.
Against this latter clause of the verdict Isabel had appealed with an
ardour that had made him wonder afresh at the oddity of some of his
wife's tastes. Isabel could explain it only by saying that she liked to
know people who were as different as possible from herself. "Why
then don't you make the acquaintance of your washerwoman?" Osmond
had enquired; to which Isabel had answered that she was afraid her
washerwoman wouldn't care for her. Now Henrietta cared so much.
Ralph had seen nothing of her for the greater part of the two years that
had followed her marriage; the winter that formed the beginning of her
residence in Rome he had spent again at San Remo, where he had been
joined in the spring by his mother, who afterwards had gone with him
to England, to see what they were doing at the bank--an operation she
couldn't induce him to perform. Ralph had taken a lease of his house at
San Remo, a small villa which he had occupied still another winter; but
late in the month of April of this second year he had come down to Rome.
It was the first time since her marriage that he had stood face to face
with Isabel; his desire to see her again was then of the keenest. She
had written to him from time to time, but her letters told him nothing
he wanted to know. He had asked his mother what she was making of her
life, and his mother had simply answered that she supposed she was
making the best of it. Mrs. Touchett had not the imagination that
communes with the unseen, and she now pretended to no intimacy with
her niece, whom she rarely encountered. This young woman appeared to
be living in a sufficiently honourable way, but Mrs. Touchett still
remained of the opinion that her marriage had been a shabby affair. It
had given her no pleasure to think of Isabel's establishment, which she
was sure was a very lame business. From time to time, in Florence, she
rubbed against the Countess Gemini, doing her best always to minimise
the contact; and the Countess reminded her of Osmond, who made her
think of Isabel. The Countess was less talked of in these days; but Mrs.
Touchett augured no good of that: it only proved how she had been talked
of before. There was a more direct suggestion of Isabel in the person
of Madame Merle; but Madame Merle's relations with Mrs. Touchett had
undergone a perceptible change. Isabel's aunt had told her, without
circumlocution, that she had played too ingenious a part; and Madame
Merle, who never quarrelled with any one, who appeared to think no one
worth it, and who had performed the miracle of living, more or less,
for several years with Mrs. Touchett and showing no symptom of
irritation--Madame Merle now took a very high tone and declared that
this was an accusation from which she couldn't stoop to defend herself.
She added, however (without stooping), that her behaviour had been only
too simple, that she had believed only what she saw, that she saw Isabel
was not eager to marry and Osmond not eager to please (his repeated
visits had been nothing; he was boring himself to death on his hill-top
and he came merely for amusement). Isabel had kept her sentiments to
herself, and her journey to Greece and Egypt had effectually thrown
dust in her companion's eyes. Madame Merle accepted the event--she was
unprepared to think of it as a scandal; but that she had played any part
in it, double or single, was an imputation against which she proudly
protested. It was doubtless in consequence of Mrs. Touchett's attitude,
and of the injury it offered to habits consecrated by many charming
seasons, that Madame Merle had, after this, chosen to pass many months
in England, where her credit was quite unimpaired. Mrs. Touchett had
done her a wrong; there are some things that can't be forgiven. But
Madame Merle suffered in silence; there was always something exquisite
in her dignity.
Ralph, as I say, had wished to see for himself; but while engaged in
this pursuit he had yet felt afresh what a fool he had been to put the
girl on her guard. He had played the wrong card, and now he had lost the
game. He should see nothing, he should learn nothing; for him she would
always wear a mask. His true line would have been to profess delight in
her union, so that later, when, as Ralph phrased it, the bottom should
fall out of it, she might have the pleasure of saying to him that he
had been a goose. He would gladly have consented to pass for a goose in
order to know Isabel's real situation. At present, however, she neither
taunted him with his fallacies nor pretended that her own confidence was
justified; if she wore a mask it completely covered her face. There was
something fixed and mechanical in the serenity painted on it; this was
not an expression, Ralph said--it was a representation, it was even an
advertisement. She had lost her child; that was a sorrow, but it was a
sorrow she scarcely spoke of; there was more to say about it than she
could say to Ralph. It belonged to the past, moreover; it had occurred
six months before and she had already laid aside the tokens of mourning.
She appeared to be leading the life of the world; Ralph heard her spoken
of as having a "charming position." He observed that she produced the
impression of being peculiarly enviable, that it was supposed, among
many people, to be a privilege even to know her. Her house was not open
to every one, and she had an evening in the week to which people
were not invited as a matter of course. She lived with a certain
magnificence, but you needed to be a member of her circle to perceive
it; for there was nothing to gape at, nothing to criticise, nothing even
to admire, in the daily proceedings of Mr. and Mrs. Osmond. Ralph, in
all this, recognised the hand of the master; for he knew that Isabel had
no faculty for producing studied impressions. She struck him as having
a great love of movement, of gaiety, of late hours, of long rides, of
fatigue; an eagerness to be entertained, to be interested, even to be
bored, to make acquaintances, to see people who were talked about, to
explore the neighbourhood of Rome, to enter into relation with certain
of the mustiest relics of its old society. In all this there was
much less discrimination than in that desire for comprehensiveness of
development on which he had been used to exercise his wit. There was
a kind of violence in some of her impulses, of crudity in some of her
experiments, which took him by surprise: it seemed to him that she even
spoke faster, moved faster, breathed faster, than before her marriage.
Certainly she had fallen into exaggerations--she who used to care so
much for the pure truth; and whereas of old she had a great delight
in good-humoured argument, in intellectual play (she never looked
so charming as when in the genial heat of discussion she received a
crushing blow full in the face and brushed it away as a feather), she
appeared now to think there was nothing worth people's either differing
about or agreeing upon. Of old she had been curious, and now she was
indifferent, and yet in spite of her indifference her activity was
greater than ever. Slender still, but lovelier than before, she had
gained no great maturity of aspect; yet there was an amplitude and a
brilliancy in her personal arrangements that gave a touch of insolence
to her beauty. Poor human-hearted Isabel, what perversity had bitten
her? Her light step drew a mass of drapery behind it; her intelligent
head sustained a majesty of ornament. The free, keen girl had become
quite another person; what he saw was the fine lady who was supposed to
represent something. What did Isabel represent? Ralph asked himself;
and he could only answer by saying that she represented Gilbert Osmond.
"Good heavens, what a function!" he then woefully exclaimed. He was lost
in wonder at the mystery of things.
He recognised Osmond, as I say; he recognised him at every turn. He
saw how he kept all things within limits; how he adjusted, regulated,
animated their manner of life. Osmond was in his element; at last he had
material to work with. He always had an eye to effect, and his effects
were deeply calculated. They were produced by no vulgar means, but the
motive was as vulgar as the art was great. To surround his interior
with a sort of invidious sanctity, to tantalise society with a sense
of exclusion, to make people believe his house was different from every
other, to impart to the face that he presented to the world a cold
originality--this was the ingenious effort of the personage to whom
Isabel had attributed a superior morality. "He works with superior
material," Ralph said to himself; "it's rich abundance compared with his
former resources." Ralph was a clever man; but Ralph had never--to his
own sense--been so clever as when he observed, in petto, that under the
guise of caring only for intrinsic values Osmond lived exclusively for
the world. Far from being its master as he pretended to be, he was
its very humble servant, and the degree of its attention was his only
measure of success. He lived with his eye on it from morning till night,
and the world was so stupid it never suspected the trick. Everything
he did was pose--pose so subtly considered that if one were not on the
lookout one mistook it for impulse. Ralph had never met a man who lived
so much in the land of consideration. His tastes, his studies, his
accomplishments, his collections, were all for a purpose. His life on
his hill-top at Florence had been the conscious attitude of years. His
solitude, his ennui, his love for his daughter, his good manners, his
bad manners, were so many features of a mental image constantly present
to him as a model of impertinence and mystification. His ambition was
not to please the world, but to please himself by exciting the world's
curiosity and then declining to satisfy it. It had made him feel great,
ever, to play the world a trick. The thing he had done in his life most
directly to please himself was his marrying Miss Archer; though in this
case indeed the gullible world was in a manner embodied in poor Isabel,
who had been mystified to the top of her bent. Ralph of course found
a fitness in being consistent; he had embraced a creed, and as he had
suffered for it he could not in honour forsake it. I give this little
sketch of its articles for what they may at the time have been worth.
It was certain that he was very skilful in fitting the facts to his
theory--even the fact that during the month he spent in Rome at this
period the husband of the woman he loved appeared to regard him not in
the least as an enemy.
For Gilbert Osmond Ralph had not now that importance. It was not that he
had the importance of a friend; it was rather that he had none at all.
He was Isabel's cousin and he was rather unpleasantly ill--it was on
this basis that Osmond treated with him. He made the proper enquiries,
asked about his health, about Mrs. Touchett, about his opinion of winter
climates, whether he were comfortable at his hotel. He addressed him, on
the few occasions of their meeting, not a word that was not necessary;
but his manner had always the urbanity proper to conscious success in
the presence of conscious failure. For all this, Ralph had had, toward
the end, a sharp inward vision of Osmond's making it of small ease to
his wife that she should continue to receive Mr. Touchett. He was not
jealous--he had not that excuse; no one could be jealous of Ralph. But
he made Isabel pay for her old-time kindness, of which so much was
still left; and as Ralph had no idea of her paying too much, so when his
suspicion had become sharp, he had taken himself off. In doing so he
had deprived Isabel of a very interesting occupation: she had been
constantly wondering what fine principle was keeping him alive. She had
decided that it was his love of conversation; his conversation had been
better than ever. He had given up walking; he was no longer a humorous
stroller. He sat all day in a chair--almost any chair would serve, and
was so dependent on what you would do for him that, had not his talk
been highly contemplative, you might have thought he was blind. The
reader already knows more about him than Isabel was ever to know, and
the reader may therefore be given the key to the mystery. What kept
Ralph alive was simply the fact that he had not yet seen enough of
the person in the world in whom he was most interested: he was not yet
satisfied. There was more to come; he couldn't make up his mind to lose
that. He wanted to see what she would make of her husband--or what her
husband would make of her. This was only the first act of the drama, and
he was determined to sit out the performance. His determination had held
good; it had kept him going some eighteen months more, till the time of
his return to Rome with Lord Warburton. It had given him indeed such an
air of intending to live indefinitely that Mrs. Touchett, though more
accessible to confusions of thought in the matter of this strange,
unremunerative--and unremunerated--son of hers than she had ever been
before, had, as we have learned, not scrupled to embark for a distant
land. If Ralph had been kept alive by suspense it was with a good deal
of the same emotion--the excitement of wondering in what state she
should find him--that Isabel mounted to his apartment the day after Lord
Warburton had notified her of his arrival in Rome.
She spent an hour with him; it was the first of several visits. Gilbert
Osmond called on him punctually, and on their sending their carriage for
him Ralph came more than once to Palazzo Roccanera. A fortnight elapsed,
at the end of which Ralph announced to Lord Warburton that he thought
after all he wouldn't go to Sicily. The two men had been dining together
after a day spent by the latter in ranging about the Campagna. They had
left the table, and Warburton, before the chimney, was lighting a cigar,
which he instantly removed from his lips.
"Won't go to Sicily? Where then will you go?"
"Well, I guess I won't go anywhere," said Ralph, from the sofa, all
shamelessly.
"Do you mean you'll return to England?"
"Oh dear no; I'll stay in Rome."
"Rome won't do for you. Rome's not warm enough."
"It will have to do. I'll make it do. See how well I've been."
Lord Warburton looked at him a while, puffing a cigar and as if trying
to see it. "You've been better than you were on the journey, certainly.
I wonder how you lived through that. But I don't understand your
condition. I recommend you to try Sicily."
"I can't try," said poor Ralph. "I've done trying. I can't move further.
I can't face that journey. Fancy me between Scylla and Charybdis! I
don't want to die on the Sicilian plains--to be snatched away, like
Proserpine in the same locality, to the Plutonian shades."
"What the deuce then did you come for?" his lordship enquired.
"Because the idea took me. I see it won't do. It really doesn't
matter where I am now. I've exhausted all remedies, I've swallowed
all climates. As I'm here I'll stay. I haven't a single cousin in
Sicily--much less a married one."
"Your cousin's certainly an inducement. But what does the doctor say?"
"I haven't asked him, and I don't care a fig. If I die here Mrs. Osmond
will bury me. But I shall not die here."
"I hope not." Lord Warburton continued to smoke reflectively. "Well,
I must say," he resumed, "for myself I'm very glad you don't insist on
Sicily. I had a horror of that journey."
"Ah, but for you it needn't have mattered. I had no idea of dragging you
in my train."
"I certainly didn't mean to let you go alone."
"My dear Warburton, I never expected you to come further than this,"
Ralph cried.
"I should have gone with you and seen you settled," said Lord Warburton.
"You're a very good Christian. You're a very kind man."
"Then I should have come back here."
"And then you'd have gone to England."
"No, no; I should have stayed."
"Well," said Ralph, "if that's what we are both up to, I don't see where
Sicily comes in!"
His companion was silent; he sat staring at the fire. At last, looking
up, "I say, tell me this," he broke out; "did you really mean to go to
Sicily when we started?"
"Ah, vous m'en demandez trop! Let me put a question first. Did you come
with me quite--platonically?"
"I don't know what you mean by that. I wanted to come abroad."
"I suspect we've each been playing our little game."
"Speak for yourself. I made no secret whatever of my desiring to be here
a while."
"Yes, I remember you said you wished to see the Minister of Foreign
Affairs."
"I've seen him three times. He's very amusing."
"I think you've forgotten what you came for," said Ralph.
"Perhaps I have," his companion answered rather gravely.
These two were gentlemen of a race which is not distinguished by the
absence of reserve, and they had travelled together from London to Rome
without an allusion to matters that were uppermost in the mind of each.
There was an old subject they had once discussed, but it had lost its
recognised place in their attention, and even after their arrival
in Rome, where many things led back to it, they had kept the same
half-diffident, half-confident silence.
"I recommend you to get the doctor's consent, all the same," Lord
Warburton went on, abruptly, after an interval.
"The doctor's consent will spoil it. I never have it when I can help
it."
"What then does Mrs. Osmond think?" Ralph's friend demanded. "I've not
told her. She'll probably say that Rome's too cold and even offer to go
with me to Catania. She's capable of that."
"In your place I should like it."
"Her husband won't like it."
"Ah well, I can fancy that; though it seems to me you're not bound to
mind his likings. They're his affair."
"I don't want to make any more trouble between them," said Ralph.
"Is there so much already?"
"There's complete preparation for it. Her going off with me would make
the explosion. Osmond isn't fond of his wife's cousin."
"Then of course he'd make a row. But won't he make a row if you stop
here?"
"That's what I want to see. He made one the last time I was in Rome, and
then I thought it my duty to disappear. Now I think it's my duty to stop
and defend her."
"My dear Touchett, your defensive powers--!" Lord Warburton began with
a smile. But he saw something in his companion's face that checked him.
"Your duty, in these premises, seems to me rather a nice question," he
observed instead.
Ralph for a short time answered nothing. "It's true that my defensive
powers are small," he returned at last; "but as my aggressive ones are
still smaller Osmond may after all not think me worth his gunpowder. At
any rate," he added, "there are things I'm curious to see."
"You're sacrificing your health to your curiosity then?"
"I'm not much interested in my health, and I'm deeply interested in Mrs.
Osmond."
"So am I. But not as I once was," Lord Warburton added quickly. This was
one of the allusions he had not hitherto found occasion to make.
"Does she strike you as very happy?" Ralph enquired, emboldened by this
confidence.
"Well, I don't know; I've hardly thought. She told me the other night
she was happy."
"Ah, she told YOU, of course," Ralph exclaimed, smiling.
"I don't know that. It seems to me I was rather the sort of person she
might have complained to."
"Complained? She'll never complain. She has done it--what she HAS
done--and she knows it. She'll complain to you least of all. She's very
careful."
"She needn't be. I don't mean to make love to her again."
"I'm delighted to hear it. There can be no doubt at least of YOUR duty."
"Ah no," said Lord Warburton gravely; "none!"
"Permit me to ask," Ralph went on, "whether it's to bring out the fact
that you don't mean to make love to her that you're so very civil to the
little girl?"
Lord Warburton gave a slight start; he got up and stood before the fire,
looking at it hard. "Does that strike you as very ridiculous?"
"Ridiculous? Not in the least, if you really like her."
"I think her a delightful little person. I don't know when a girl of
that age has pleased me more."
"She's a charming creature. Ah, she at least is genuine."
"Of course there's the difference in our ages--more than twenty years."
"My dear Warburton," said Ralph, "are you serious?"
"Perfectly serious--as far as I've got."
"I'm very glad. And, heaven help us," cried Ralph, "how cheered-up old
Osmond will be!"
His companion frowned. "I say, don't spoil it. I shouldn't propose for
his daughter to please HIM."
"He'll have the perversity to be pleased all the same."
"He's not so fond of me as that," said his lordship.
"As that? My dear Warburton, the drawback of your position is that
people needn't be fond of you at all to wish to be connected with you.
Now, with me in such a case, I should have the happy confidence that
they loved me."
Lord Warburton seemed scarcely in the mood for doing justice to general
axioms--he was thinking of a special case. "Do you judge she'll be
pleased?"
"The girl herself? Delighted, surely."
"No, no; I mean Mrs. Osmond."
Ralph looked at him a moment. "My dear fellow, what has she to do with
it?"
"Whatever she chooses. She's very fond of Pansy."
"Very true--very true." And Ralph slowly got up. "It's an interesting
question--how far her fondness for Pansy will carry her." He stood there
a moment with his hands in his pockets and rather a clouded brow. "I
hope, you know, that you're very--very sure. The deuce!" he broke off.
"I don't know how to say it."
"Yes, you do; you know how to say everything."
"Well, it's awkward. I hope you're sure that among Miss Osmond's merits
her being--a--so near her stepmother isn't a leading one?"
"Good heavens, Touchett!" cried Lord Warburton angrily, "for what do you
take me?"
| Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the "ficelle" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, "Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a "representative" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an "intrinsic value" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from "using" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of "intrinsic value" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon? | analysis |
Isabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her marriage, this lady
having indulged in frequent absences from Rome. At one time she had
spent six months in England; at another she had passed a portion of a
winter in Paris. She had made numerous visits to distant friends and
gave countenance to the idea that for the future she should be a less
inveterate Roman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the
past only in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one of
the sunniest niches of the Pincian--an apartment which often stood
empty--this suggested a prospect of almost constant absence; a
danger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined to deplore.
Familiarity had modified in some degree her first impression of Madame
Merle, but it had not essentially altered it; there was still much
wonder of admiration in it. That personage was armed at all points; it
was a pleasure to see a character so completely equipped for the social
battle. She carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished
steel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more
and more that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcome with
disgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation. She had her own
ideas; she had of old exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who
knew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control her
highly-cultivated friend concealed a rich sensibility. But her will was
mistress of her life; there was something gallant in the way she kept
going. It was as if she had learned the secret of it--as if the art of
life were some clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew
older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days
when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness
what it was that she was pretending to live for. Her old habit had
been to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceived
possibilities, with the idea of some new adventure. As a younger person
she had been used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other:
there were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Merle had
suppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she
lived entirely by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isabel
would have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliant
friend had been near she would have made an appeal to her. She had
become aware more than before of the advantage of being like that--of
having made one's self a firm surface, a sort of corselet of silver.
But, as I say, it was not till the winter during which we lately renewed
acquaintance with our heroine that the personage in question made again
a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had done
since her marriage; but by this time Isabel's needs and inclinations
had considerably changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that she
would have applied for instruction; she had lost the desire to know this
lady's clever trick. If she had troubles she must keep them to herself,
and if life was difficult it would not make it easier to confess herself
beaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself and an
ornament to any circle; but was she--would she be--of use to others
in periods of refined embarrassment? The best way to profit by her
friend--this indeed Isabel had always thought--was to imitate her, to be
as firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isabel,
considering this fact, determined for the fiftieth time to brush aside
her own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal of an intercourse which
had virtually been interrupted, that her old ally was different, was
almost detached--pushing to the extreme a certain rather artificial fear
of being indiscreet. Ralph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinion
that she was prone to exaggeration, to forcing the note--was apt, in the
vulgar phrase, to overdo it. Isabel had never admitted this charge--had
never indeed quite understood it; Madame Merle's conduct, to her
perception, always bore the stamp of good taste, was always "quiet."
But in this matter of not wishing to intrude upon the inner life of the
Osmond family it at last occurred to our young woman that she overdid a
little. That of course was not the best taste; that was rather violent.
She remembered too much that Isabel was married; that she had now other
interests; that though she, Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond and
his little Pansy very well, better almost than any one, she was not
after all of the inner circle. She was on her guard; she never spoke of
their affairs till she was asked, even pressed--as when her opinion was
wanted; she had a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame Merle was as candid
as we know, and one day she candidly expressed this dread to Isabel.
"I MUST be on my guard," she said; "I might so easily, without
suspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be offended, even if my
intention should have been of the purest. I must not forget that I knew
your husband long before you did; I must not let that betray me. If you
were a silly woman you might be jealous. You're not a silly woman; I
know that perfectly. But neither am I; therefore I'm determined not
to get into trouble. A little harm's very soon done; a mistake's made
before one knows it. Of course if I had wished to make love to your
husband I had ten years to do it in, and nothing to prevent; so it isn't
likely I shall begin to-day, when I'm so much less attractive than I
was. But if I were to annoy you by seeming to take a place that doesn't
belong to me, you wouldn't make that reflection; you'd simply say I
was forgetting certain differences. I'm determined not to forget them.
Certainly a good friend isn't always thinking of that; one doesn't
suspect one's friends of injustice. I don't suspect you, my dear, in
the least; but I suspect human nature. Don't think I make myself
uncomfortable; I'm not always watching myself. I think I sufficiently
prove it in talking to you as I do now. All I wish to say is, however,
that if you were to be jealous--that's the form it would take--I should
be sure to think it was a little my fault. It certainly wouldn't be your
husband's."
Isabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett's theory that
Madame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond's marriage. We know how she had
at first received it. Madame Merle might have made Gilbert Osmond's
marriage, but she certainly had not made Isabel Archer's. That was the
work of--Isabel scarcely knew what: of nature, providence, fortune, of
the eternal mystery of things. It was true her aunt's complaint had
been not so much of Madame Merle's activity as of her duplicity: she had
brought about the strange event and then she had denied her guilt. Such
guilt would not have been great, to Isabel's mind; she couldn't make
a crime of Madame Merle's having been the producing cause of the most
important friendship she had ever formed. This had occurred to her just
before her marriage, after her little discussion with her aunt and at a
time when she was still capable of that large inward reference, the
tone almost of the philosophic historian, to her scant young annals. If
Madame Merle had desired her change of state she could only say it had
been a very happy thought. With her, moreover, she had been perfectly
straightforward; she had never concealed her high opinion of Gilbert
Osmond. After their union Isabel discovered that her husband took a less
convenient view of the matter; he seldom consented to finger, in talk,
this roundest and smoothest bead of their social rosary. "Don't you like
Madame Merle?" Isabel had once said to him. "She thinks a great deal of
you."
"I'll tell you once for all," Osmond had answered. "I liked her once
better than I do to-day. I'm tired of her, and I'm rather ashamed of it.
She's so almost unnaturally good! I'm glad she's not in Italy; it makes
for relaxation--for a sort of moral detente. Don't talk of her too much;
it seems to bring her back. She'll come back in plenty of time."
Madame Merle, in fact, had come back before it was too late--too late,
I mean, to recover whatever advantage she might have lost. But meantime,
if, as I have said, she was sensibly different, Isabel's feelings were
also not quite the same. Her consciousness of the situation was as
acute as of old, but it was much less satisfying. A dissatisfied mind,
whatever else it may miss, is rarely in want of reasons; they bloom as
thick as buttercups in June. The fact of Madame Merle's having had a
hand in Gilbert Osmond's marriage ceased to be one of her titles to
consideration; it might have been written, after all, that there was not
so much to thank her for. As time went on there was less and less, and
Isabel once said to herself that perhaps without her these things would
not have been. That reflection indeed was instantly stifled; she knew an
immediate horror at having made it. "Whatever happens to me let me not
be unjust," she said; "let me bear my burdens myself and not shift them
upon others!" This disposition was tested, eventually, by that ingenious
apology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to make
and of which I have given a sketch; for there was something
irritating--there was almost an air of mockery--in her neat
discriminations and clear convictions. In Isabel's mind to-day there
was nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of
fears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who had
just made the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew so little
what she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable to
explain. Jealous of her--jealous of her with Gilbert? The idea just then
suggested no near reality. She almost wished jealousy had been possible;
it would have made in a manner for refreshment. Wasn't it in a manner
one of the symptoms of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, so
wise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel better than
Isabel knew herself. This young woman had always been fertile in
resolutions--any of them of an elevated character; but at no period had
they flourished (in the privacy of her heart) more richly than to-day.
It is true that they all had a family likeness; they might have been
summed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy it should
not be by a fault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had always had
a great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriously
discouraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice--not to
pay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle with its
disappointment would be a petty revenge--especially as the pleasure to
be derived from that would be perfectly insincere. It might feed
her sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. It was
impossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes open; if ever
a girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was doubtless not a
free agent; but the sole source of her mistake had been within herself.
There had been no plot, no snare; she had looked and considered and
chosen. When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only one way to
repair it--just immensely (oh, with the highest grandeur!) to accept it.
One folly was enough, especially when it was to last for ever; a second
one would not much set it off. In this vow of reticence there was a
certain nobleness which kept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had been
right, for all that, in taking her precautions.
One day about a month after Ralph Touchett's arrival in Rome Isabel
came back from a walk with Pansy. It was not only a part of her general
determination to be just that she was at present very thankful for
Pansy--it was also a part of her tenderness for things that were pure
and weak. Pansy was dear to her, and there was nothing else in her
life that had the rightness of the young creature's attachment or
the sweetness of her own clearness about it. It was like a soft
presence--like a small hand in her own; on Pansy's part it was more than
an affection--it was a kind of ardent coercive faith. On her own side
her sense of the girl's dependence was more than a pleasure; it operated
as a definite reason when motives threatened to fail her. She had said
to herself that we must take our duty where we find it, and that we
must look for it as much as possible. Pansy's sympathy was a direct
admonition; it seemed to say that here was an opportunity, not eminent
perhaps, but unmistakeable. Yet an opportunity for what Isabel could
hardly have said; in general, to be more for the child than the child
was able to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in these days, to
remember that her little companion had once been ambiguous, for she
now perceived that Pansy's ambiguities were simply her own grossness of
vision. She had been unable to believe any one could care so much--so
extraordinarily much--to please. But since then she had seen this
delicate faculty in operation, and now she knew what to think of it. It
was the whole creature--it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride to
interfere with it, and though she was constantly extending her conquests
she took no credit for them. The two were constantly together; Mrs.
Osmond was rarely seen without her stepdaughter. Isabel liked her
company; it had the effect of one's carrying a nosegay composed all
of the same flower. And then not to neglect Pansy, not under any
provocation to neglect her--this she had made an article of religion.
The young girl had every appearance of being happier in Isabel's society
than in that of any one save her father,--whom she admired with an
intensity justified by the fact that, as paternity was an exquisite
pleasure to Gilbert Osmond, he had always been luxuriously mild. Isabel
knew how Pansy liked to be with her and how she studied the means of
pleasing her. She had decided that the best way of pleasing her was
negative, and consisted in not giving her trouble--a conviction which
certainly could have had no reference to trouble already existing. She
was therefore ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile; she
was careful even to moderate the eagerness with which she assented to
Isabel's propositions and which might have implied that she could have
thought otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked social questions,
and though she delighted in approbation, to the point of turning pale
when it came to her, never held out her hand for it. She only looked
toward it wistfully--an attitude which, as she grew older, made her eyes
the prettiest in the world. When during the second winter at Palazzo
Roccanera she began to go to parties, to dances, she always, at a
reasonable hour, lest Mrs. Osmond should be tired, was the first to
propose departure. Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the late dances,
for she knew her little companion had a passionate pleasure in this
exercise, taking her steps to the music like a conscientious fairy.
Society, moreover, had no drawbacks for her; she liked even the tiresome
parts--the heat of ball-rooms, the dulness of dinners, the crush at
the door, the awkward waiting for the carriage. During the day, in this
vehicle, beside her stepmother, she sat in a small fixed, appreciative
posture, bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been taken
to drive for the first time.
On the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of the gates of
the city and at the end of half an hour had left the carriage to await
them by the roadside while they walked away over the short grass of the
Campagna, which even in the winter months is sprinkled with delicate
flowers. This was almost a daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of a
walk and had a swift length of step, though not so swift a one as on her
first coming to Europe. It was not the form of exercise that Pansy loved
best, but she liked it, because she liked everything; and she moved with
a shorter undulation beside her father's wife, who afterwards, on their
return to Rome, paid a tribute to her preferences by making the circuit
of the Pincian or the Villa Borghese. She had gathered a handful of
flowers in a sunny hollow, far from the walls of Rome, and on reaching
Palazzo Roccanera she went straight to her room, to put them into
water. Isabel passed into the drawing-room, the one she herself usually
occupied, the second in order from the large ante-chamber which was
entered from the staircase and in which even Gilbert Osmond's rich
devices had not been able to correct a look of rather grand nudity. Just
beyond the threshold of the drawing-room she stopped short, the
reason for her doing so being that she had received an impression. The
impression had, in strictness, nothing unprecedented; but she felt it as
something new, and the soundlessness of her step gave her time to take
in the scene before she interrupted it. Madame Merle was there in her
bonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they were
unaware she had come in. Isabel had often seen that before, certainly;
but what she had not seen, or at least had not noticed, was that their
colloquy had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar
silence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrance would
startle them. Madame Merle was standing on the rug, a little way from
the fire; Osmond was in a deep chair, leaning back and looking at her.
Her head was erect, as usual, but her eyes were bent on his. What struck
Isabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle stood; there was
an anomaly in this that arrested her. Then she perceived that they had
arrived at a desultory pause in their exchange of ideas and were musing,
face to face, with the freedom of old friends who sometimes exchange
ideas without uttering them. There was nothing to shock in this; they
were old friends in fact. But the thing made an image, lasting only a
moment, like a sudden flicker of light. Their relative positions, their
absorbed mutual gaze, struck her as something detected. But it was all
over by the time she had fairly seen it. Madame Merle had seen her and
had welcomed her without moving; her husband, on the other hand, had
instantly jumped up. He presently murmured something about wanting a
walk and, after having asked their visitor to excuse him, left the room.
"I came to see you, thinking you would have come in; and as you hadn't I
waited for you," Madame Merle said.
"Didn't he ask you to sit down?" Isabel asked with a smile.
Madame Merle looked about her. "Ah, it's very true; I was going away."
"You must stay now."
"Certainly. I came for a reason; I've something on my mind."
"I've told you that before," Isabel said--"that it takes something
extraordinary to bring you to this house."
"And you know what I've told YOU; that whether I come or whether I stay
away, I've always the same motive--the affection I bear you."
"Yes, you've told me that."
"You look just now as if you didn't believe it," said Madame Merle.
"Ah," Isabel answered, "the profundity of your motives, that's the last
thing I doubt!"
"You doubt sooner of the sincerity of my words."
Isabel shook her head gravely. "I know you've always been kind to me."
"As often as you would let me. You don't always take it; then one has
to let you alone. It's not to do you a kindness, however, that I've come
to-day; it's quite another affair. I've come to get rid of a trouble of
my own--to make it over to you. I've been talking to your husband about
it."
"I'm surprised at that; he doesn't like troubles."
"Especially other people's; I know very well. But neither do you, I
suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It's
about poor Mr. Rosier."
"Ah," said Isabel reflectively, "it's his trouble then, not yours."
"He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a
week, to talk about Pansy."
"Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it."
Madame Merle hesitated. "I gathered from your husband that perhaps you
didn't."
"How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the
matter."
"It's probably because he doesn't know how to speak of it."
"It's nevertheless the sort of question in which he's rarely at fault."
"Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well what to think.
To-day he doesn't."
"Haven't you been telling him?" Isabel asked.
Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. "Do you know you're a
little dry?"
"Yes; I can't help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me."
"In that there's some reason. You're so near the child."
"Ah," said Isabel, "for all the comfort I've given him! If you think me
dry, I wonder what HE thinks."
"I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done."
"I can do nothing."
"You can do more at least than I. I don't know what mysterious
connection he may have discovered between me and Pansy; but he came to
me from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keeps
coming back, to spur me up, to know what hope there is, to pour out his
feelings."
"He's very much in love," said Isabel.
"Very much--for him."
"Very much for Pansy, you might say as well."
Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. "Don't you think she's
attractive?"
"The dearest little person possible--but very limited."
"She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier's not
unlimited."
"No," said Isabel, "he has about the extent of one's
pocket-handkerchief--the small ones with lace borders." Her humour had
lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamed
of exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy's suitor. "He's very
kind, very honest," she presently added; "and he's not such a fool as he
seems."
"He assures me that she delights in him," said Madame Merle.
"I don't know; I've not asked her."
"You've never sounded her a little?"
"It's not my place; it's her father's."
"Ah, you're too literal!" said Madame Merle.
"I must judge for myself."
Madame Merle gave her smile again. "It isn't easy to help you."
"To help me?" said Isabel very seriously. "What do you mean?"
"It's easy to displease you. Don't you see how wise I am to be careful?
I notify you, at any rate, as I notified Osmond, that I wash my hands of
the love-affairs of Miss Pansy and Mr. Edward Rosier. Je n'y peux rien,
moi! I can't talk to Pansy about him. Especially," added Madame Merle,
"as I don't think him a paragon of husbands."
Isabel reflected a little; after which, with a smile, "You don't wash
your hands then!" she said. After which again she added in another tone:
"You can't--you're too much interested."
Madame Merle slowly rose; she had given Isabel a look as rapid as the
intimation that had gleamed before our heroine a few moments before.
Only this time the latter saw nothing. "Ask him the next time, and
you'll see."
"I can't ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has let
him know that he's not welcome."
"Ah yes," said Madame Merle, "I forgot that--though it's the burden of
his lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted him. All the same," she
went on, "Osmond doesn't dislike him so much as he thinks." She had got
up as if to close the conversation, but she lingered, looking about her,
and had evidently more to say. Isabel perceived this and even saw the
point she had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not
opening the way.
"That must have pleased him, if you've told him," she answered, smiling.
"Certainly I've told him; as far as that goes I've encouraged him. I've
preached patience, have said that his case isn't desperate if he'll only
hold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into his
head to be jealous."
"Jealous?"
"Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here."
Isabel, who was tired, had remained sitting; but at this she also rose.
"Ah!" she exclaimed simply, moving slowly to the fireplace. Madame
Merle observed her as she passed and while she stood a moment before the
mantel-glass and pushed into its place a wandering tress of hair.
"Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there's nothing impossible in Lord
Warburton's falling in love with Pansy," Madame Merle went on. Isabel
was silent a little; she turned away from the glass. "It's true--there's
nothing impossible," she returned at last, gravely and more gently.
"So I've had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husband thinks."
"That I don't know."
"Ask him and you'll see."
"I shall not ask him," said Isabel.
"Pardon me; I forgot you had pointed that out. Of course," Madame Merle
added, "you've had infinitely more observation of Lord Warburton's
behaviour than I."
"I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you that he likes my stepdaughter
very much."
Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. "Likes her, you mean--as
Mr. Rosier means?"
"I don't know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburton has let me know
that he's charmed with Pansy."
"And you've never told Osmond?" This observation was immediate,
precipitate; it almost burst from Madame Merle's lips.
Isabel's eyes rested on her. "I suppose he'll know in time; Lord
Warburton has a tongue and knows how to express himself."
Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken more quickly
than usual, and the reflection brought the colour to her cheek. She gave
the treacherous impulse time to subside and then said as if she had been
thinking it over a little: "That would be better than marrying poor Mr.
Rosier."
"Much better, I think."
"It would be very delightful; it would be a great marriage. It's really
very kind of him."
"Very kind of him?"
"To drop his eyes on a simple little girl."
"I don't see that."
"It's very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond--"
"After all, Pansy Osmond's the most attractive person he has ever
known!" Isabel exclaimed.
Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. "Ah, a moment
ago I thought you seemed rather to disparage her."
"I said she was limited. And so she is. And so's Lord Warburton."
"So are we all, if you come to that. If it's no more than Pansy
deserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections on Mr. Rosier
I won't admit that she deserves it. That will be too perverse."
"Mr. Rosier's a nuisance!" Isabel cried abruptly.
"I quite agree with you, and I'm delighted to know that I'm not expected
to feed his flame. For the future, when he calls on me, my door shall be
closed to him." And gathering her mantle together Madame Merle prepared
to depart. She was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by an
inconsequent request from Isabel.
"All the same, you know, be kind to him."
She lifted her shoulders and eyebrows and stood looking at her friend.
"I don't understand your contradictions! Decidedly I shan't be kind to
him, for it will be a false kindness. I want to see her married to Lord
Warburton."
"You had better wait till he asks her."
"If what you say's true, he'll ask her. Especially," said Madame Merle
in a moment, "if you make him."
"If I make him?"
"It's quite in your power. You've great influence with him."
Isabel frowned a little. "Where did you learn that?"
"Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you--never!" said Madame Merle, smiling.
"I certainly never told you anything of the sort."
"You MIGHT have done so--so far as opportunity went--when we were by
way of being confidential with each other. But you really told me very
little; I've often thought so since."
Isabel had thought so too, and sometimes with a certain satisfaction.
But she didn't admit it now--perhaps because she wished not to appear to
exult in it. "You seem to have had an excellent informant in my aunt,"
she simply returned.
"She let me know you had declined an offer of marriage from Lord
Warburton, because she was greatly vexed and was full of the subject.
Of course I think you've done better in doing as you did. But if you
wouldn't marry Lord Warburton yourself, make him the reparation of
helping him to marry some one else."
Isabel listened to this with a face that persisted in not reflecting
the bright expressiveness of Madame Merle's. But in a moment she said,
reasonably and gently enough: "I should be very glad indeed if, as
regards Pansy, it could be arranged." Upon which her companion, who
seemed to regard this as a speech of good omen, embraced her more
tenderly than might have been expected and triumphantly withdrew.
| Isabel has had three years to think of Mrs. Touchett's suggestion that Madame Merle had a hand in her marriage. She still believes that while Merle may have helped Osmond get married, she certainly did not put the idea into Isabel's head. However, she has noticed that Merle has had a noticeable absence -- Merle has distanced herself from the couple. Madame Merle had even mentioned it once to her, saying that she had known Gilbert Osmond for so much longer than Isabel and did not want to seem too familiar. Isabel had once admired Madame Merle's "trick for life" , wondering how she could herself imitate her by turning herself into something like a silver surface. Now though, she does not want to imitate this. One day, Isabel returns to the house after a walk in the garden. She is going through the drawing room, when she sees Madame Merle has come for a visit. She receives a shocking impression: Madame Merle is standing, while Osmond is sitting down. She notes that the two are sitting silent, as if they are familiar with each other. As soon as Osmond notices Isabel's arrival, he jumps up, as if he knows his mistake. Madame Merle tells Isabel she has come to discuss Edward Rosier's quest for Pansy's hand in marriage. Rosier comes to visit Merle often, begging her to intercede on his behalf. Isabel responds sarcastically to Merle's claims to wash her hands of the whole affair. Merle wants Isabel to speak to Pansy - to find out if Pansy has actual feelings for Mr. Rosier. Isabel accuses her of being too much "interested" in the whole affair. Merle then tells her Mr. Rosier is afraid that Lord Warburton is falling in love with Pansy. Isabel says that she knows Lord Warburton is charmed by Pansy, and Merle almost immediately asks if Isabel has told her husband this. Merle thinks it is "kind" of Lord Warburton to rest his eyes on Pansy. Isabel agrees with Merle that a match with Lord Warburton might be good for Pansy. Merle thinks that Isabel can make Lord Warburton marry Pansy - that she has a great influence over him. Isabel is surprised to learn that Merle knew about her rejection of Warburton. Merle suggests that Isabel owes him the reparation of making a match for him with Pansy | summary |
Isabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her marriage, this lady
having indulged in frequent absences from Rome. At one time she had
spent six months in England; at another she had passed a portion of a
winter in Paris. She had made numerous visits to distant friends and
gave countenance to the idea that for the future she should be a less
inveterate Roman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the
past only in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one of
the sunniest niches of the Pincian--an apartment which often stood
empty--this suggested a prospect of almost constant absence; a
danger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined to deplore.
Familiarity had modified in some degree her first impression of Madame
Merle, but it had not essentially altered it; there was still much
wonder of admiration in it. That personage was armed at all points; it
was a pleasure to see a character so completely equipped for the social
battle. She carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished
steel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more
and more that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcome with
disgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation. She had her own
ideas; she had of old exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who
knew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control her
highly-cultivated friend concealed a rich sensibility. But her will was
mistress of her life; there was something gallant in the way she kept
going. It was as if she had learned the secret of it--as if the art of
life were some clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew
older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days
when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness
what it was that she was pretending to live for. Her old habit had
been to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceived
possibilities, with the idea of some new adventure. As a younger person
she had been used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other:
there were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Merle had
suppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she
lived entirely by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isabel
would have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliant
friend had been near she would have made an appeal to her. She had
become aware more than before of the advantage of being like that--of
having made one's self a firm surface, a sort of corselet of silver.
But, as I say, it was not till the winter during which we lately renewed
acquaintance with our heroine that the personage in question made again
a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had done
since her marriage; but by this time Isabel's needs and inclinations
had considerably changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that she
would have applied for instruction; she had lost the desire to know this
lady's clever trick. If she had troubles she must keep them to herself,
and if life was difficult it would not make it easier to confess herself
beaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself and an
ornament to any circle; but was she--would she be--of use to others
in periods of refined embarrassment? The best way to profit by her
friend--this indeed Isabel had always thought--was to imitate her, to be
as firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isabel,
considering this fact, determined for the fiftieth time to brush aside
her own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal of an intercourse which
had virtually been interrupted, that her old ally was different, was
almost detached--pushing to the extreme a certain rather artificial fear
of being indiscreet. Ralph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinion
that she was prone to exaggeration, to forcing the note--was apt, in the
vulgar phrase, to overdo it. Isabel had never admitted this charge--had
never indeed quite understood it; Madame Merle's conduct, to her
perception, always bore the stamp of good taste, was always "quiet."
But in this matter of not wishing to intrude upon the inner life of the
Osmond family it at last occurred to our young woman that she overdid a
little. That of course was not the best taste; that was rather violent.
She remembered too much that Isabel was married; that she had now other
interests; that though she, Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond and
his little Pansy very well, better almost than any one, she was not
after all of the inner circle. She was on her guard; she never spoke of
their affairs till she was asked, even pressed--as when her opinion was
wanted; she had a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame Merle was as candid
as we know, and one day she candidly expressed this dread to Isabel.
"I MUST be on my guard," she said; "I might so easily, without
suspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be offended, even if my
intention should have been of the purest. I must not forget that I knew
your husband long before you did; I must not let that betray me. If you
were a silly woman you might be jealous. You're not a silly woman; I
know that perfectly. But neither am I; therefore I'm determined not
to get into trouble. A little harm's very soon done; a mistake's made
before one knows it. Of course if I had wished to make love to your
husband I had ten years to do it in, and nothing to prevent; so it isn't
likely I shall begin to-day, when I'm so much less attractive than I
was. But if I were to annoy you by seeming to take a place that doesn't
belong to me, you wouldn't make that reflection; you'd simply say I
was forgetting certain differences. I'm determined not to forget them.
Certainly a good friend isn't always thinking of that; one doesn't
suspect one's friends of injustice. I don't suspect you, my dear, in
the least; but I suspect human nature. Don't think I make myself
uncomfortable; I'm not always watching myself. I think I sufficiently
prove it in talking to you as I do now. All I wish to say is, however,
that if you were to be jealous--that's the form it would take--I should
be sure to think it was a little my fault. It certainly wouldn't be your
husband's."
Isabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett's theory that
Madame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond's marriage. We know how she had
at first received it. Madame Merle might have made Gilbert Osmond's
marriage, but she certainly had not made Isabel Archer's. That was the
work of--Isabel scarcely knew what: of nature, providence, fortune, of
the eternal mystery of things. It was true her aunt's complaint had
been not so much of Madame Merle's activity as of her duplicity: she had
brought about the strange event and then she had denied her guilt. Such
guilt would not have been great, to Isabel's mind; she couldn't make
a crime of Madame Merle's having been the producing cause of the most
important friendship she had ever formed. This had occurred to her just
before her marriage, after her little discussion with her aunt and at a
time when she was still capable of that large inward reference, the
tone almost of the philosophic historian, to her scant young annals. If
Madame Merle had desired her change of state she could only say it had
been a very happy thought. With her, moreover, she had been perfectly
straightforward; she had never concealed her high opinion of Gilbert
Osmond. After their union Isabel discovered that her husband took a less
convenient view of the matter; he seldom consented to finger, in talk,
this roundest and smoothest bead of their social rosary. "Don't you like
Madame Merle?" Isabel had once said to him. "She thinks a great deal of
you."
"I'll tell you once for all," Osmond had answered. "I liked her once
better than I do to-day. I'm tired of her, and I'm rather ashamed of it.
She's so almost unnaturally good! I'm glad she's not in Italy; it makes
for relaxation--for a sort of moral detente. Don't talk of her too much;
it seems to bring her back. She'll come back in plenty of time."
Madame Merle, in fact, had come back before it was too late--too late,
I mean, to recover whatever advantage she might have lost. But meantime,
if, as I have said, she was sensibly different, Isabel's feelings were
also not quite the same. Her consciousness of the situation was as
acute as of old, but it was much less satisfying. A dissatisfied mind,
whatever else it may miss, is rarely in want of reasons; they bloom as
thick as buttercups in June. The fact of Madame Merle's having had a
hand in Gilbert Osmond's marriage ceased to be one of her titles to
consideration; it might have been written, after all, that there was not
so much to thank her for. As time went on there was less and less, and
Isabel once said to herself that perhaps without her these things would
not have been. That reflection indeed was instantly stifled; she knew an
immediate horror at having made it. "Whatever happens to me let me not
be unjust," she said; "let me bear my burdens myself and not shift them
upon others!" This disposition was tested, eventually, by that ingenious
apology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to make
and of which I have given a sketch; for there was something
irritating--there was almost an air of mockery--in her neat
discriminations and clear convictions. In Isabel's mind to-day there
was nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of
fears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who had
just made the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew so little
what she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable to
explain. Jealous of her--jealous of her with Gilbert? The idea just then
suggested no near reality. She almost wished jealousy had been possible;
it would have made in a manner for refreshment. Wasn't it in a manner
one of the symptoms of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, so
wise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel better than
Isabel knew herself. This young woman had always been fertile in
resolutions--any of them of an elevated character; but at no period had
they flourished (in the privacy of her heart) more richly than to-day.
It is true that they all had a family likeness; they might have been
summed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy it should
not be by a fault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had always had
a great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriously
discouraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice--not to
pay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle with its
disappointment would be a petty revenge--especially as the pleasure to
be derived from that would be perfectly insincere. It might feed
her sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. It was
impossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes open; if ever
a girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was doubtless not a
free agent; but the sole source of her mistake had been within herself.
There had been no plot, no snare; she had looked and considered and
chosen. When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only one way to
repair it--just immensely (oh, with the highest grandeur!) to accept it.
One folly was enough, especially when it was to last for ever; a second
one would not much set it off. In this vow of reticence there was a
certain nobleness which kept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had been
right, for all that, in taking her precautions.
One day about a month after Ralph Touchett's arrival in Rome Isabel
came back from a walk with Pansy. It was not only a part of her general
determination to be just that she was at present very thankful for
Pansy--it was also a part of her tenderness for things that were pure
and weak. Pansy was dear to her, and there was nothing else in her
life that had the rightness of the young creature's attachment or
the sweetness of her own clearness about it. It was like a soft
presence--like a small hand in her own; on Pansy's part it was more than
an affection--it was a kind of ardent coercive faith. On her own side
her sense of the girl's dependence was more than a pleasure; it operated
as a definite reason when motives threatened to fail her. She had said
to herself that we must take our duty where we find it, and that we
must look for it as much as possible. Pansy's sympathy was a direct
admonition; it seemed to say that here was an opportunity, not eminent
perhaps, but unmistakeable. Yet an opportunity for what Isabel could
hardly have said; in general, to be more for the child than the child
was able to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in these days, to
remember that her little companion had once been ambiguous, for she
now perceived that Pansy's ambiguities were simply her own grossness of
vision. She had been unable to believe any one could care so much--so
extraordinarily much--to please. But since then she had seen this
delicate faculty in operation, and now she knew what to think of it. It
was the whole creature--it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride to
interfere with it, and though she was constantly extending her conquests
she took no credit for them. The two were constantly together; Mrs.
Osmond was rarely seen without her stepdaughter. Isabel liked her
company; it had the effect of one's carrying a nosegay composed all
of the same flower. And then not to neglect Pansy, not under any
provocation to neglect her--this she had made an article of religion.
The young girl had every appearance of being happier in Isabel's society
than in that of any one save her father,--whom she admired with an
intensity justified by the fact that, as paternity was an exquisite
pleasure to Gilbert Osmond, he had always been luxuriously mild. Isabel
knew how Pansy liked to be with her and how she studied the means of
pleasing her. She had decided that the best way of pleasing her was
negative, and consisted in not giving her trouble--a conviction which
certainly could have had no reference to trouble already existing. She
was therefore ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile; she
was careful even to moderate the eagerness with which she assented to
Isabel's propositions and which might have implied that she could have
thought otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked social questions,
and though she delighted in approbation, to the point of turning pale
when it came to her, never held out her hand for it. She only looked
toward it wistfully--an attitude which, as she grew older, made her eyes
the prettiest in the world. When during the second winter at Palazzo
Roccanera she began to go to parties, to dances, she always, at a
reasonable hour, lest Mrs. Osmond should be tired, was the first to
propose departure. Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the late dances,
for she knew her little companion had a passionate pleasure in this
exercise, taking her steps to the music like a conscientious fairy.
Society, moreover, had no drawbacks for her; she liked even the tiresome
parts--the heat of ball-rooms, the dulness of dinners, the crush at
the door, the awkward waiting for the carriage. During the day, in this
vehicle, beside her stepmother, she sat in a small fixed, appreciative
posture, bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been taken
to drive for the first time.
On the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of the gates of
the city and at the end of half an hour had left the carriage to await
them by the roadside while they walked away over the short grass of the
Campagna, which even in the winter months is sprinkled with delicate
flowers. This was almost a daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of a
walk and had a swift length of step, though not so swift a one as on her
first coming to Europe. It was not the form of exercise that Pansy loved
best, but she liked it, because she liked everything; and she moved with
a shorter undulation beside her father's wife, who afterwards, on their
return to Rome, paid a tribute to her preferences by making the circuit
of the Pincian or the Villa Borghese. She had gathered a handful of
flowers in a sunny hollow, far from the walls of Rome, and on reaching
Palazzo Roccanera she went straight to her room, to put them into
water. Isabel passed into the drawing-room, the one she herself usually
occupied, the second in order from the large ante-chamber which was
entered from the staircase and in which even Gilbert Osmond's rich
devices had not been able to correct a look of rather grand nudity. Just
beyond the threshold of the drawing-room she stopped short, the
reason for her doing so being that she had received an impression. The
impression had, in strictness, nothing unprecedented; but she felt it as
something new, and the soundlessness of her step gave her time to take
in the scene before she interrupted it. Madame Merle was there in her
bonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they were
unaware she had come in. Isabel had often seen that before, certainly;
but what she had not seen, or at least had not noticed, was that their
colloquy had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar
silence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrance would
startle them. Madame Merle was standing on the rug, a little way from
the fire; Osmond was in a deep chair, leaning back and looking at her.
Her head was erect, as usual, but her eyes were bent on his. What struck
Isabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle stood; there was
an anomaly in this that arrested her. Then she perceived that they had
arrived at a desultory pause in their exchange of ideas and were musing,
face to face, with the freedom of old friends who sometimes exchange
ideas without uttering them. There was nothing to shock in this; they
were old friends in fact. But the thing made an image, lasting only a
moment, like a sudden flicker of light. Their relative positions, their
absorbed mutual gaze, struck her as something detected. But it was all
over by the time she had fairly seen it. Madame Merle had seen her and
had welcomed her without moving; her husband, on the other hand, had
instantly jumped up. He presently murmured something about wanting a
walk and, after having asked their visitor to excuse him, left the room.
"I came to see you, thinking you would have come in; and as you hadn't I
waited for you," Madame Merle said.
"Didn't he ask you to sit down?" Isabel asked with a smile.
Madame Merle looked about her. "Ah, it's very true; I was going away."
"You must stay now."
"Certainly. I came for a reason; I've something on my mind."
"I've told you that before," Isabel said--"that it takes something
extraordinary to bring you to this house."
"And you know what I've told YOU; that whether I come or whether I stay
away, I've always the same motive--the affection I bear you."
"Yes, you've told me that."
"You look just now as if you didn't believe it," said Madame Merle.
"Ah," Isabel answered, "the profundity of your motives, that's the last
thing I doubt!"
"You doubt sooner of the sincerity of my words."
Isabel shook her head gravely. "I know you've always been kind to me."
"As often as you would let me. You don't always take it; then one has
to let you alone. It's not to do you a kindness, however, that I've come
to-day; it's quite another affair. I've come to get rid of a trouble of
my own--to make it over to you. I've been talking to your husband about
it."
"I'm surprised at that; he doesn't like troubles."
"Especially other people's; I know very well. But neither do you, I
suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It's
about poor Mr. Rosier."
"Ah," said Isabel reflectively, "it's his trouble then, not yours."
"He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a
week, to talk about Pansy."
"Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it."
Madame Merle hesitated. "I gathered from your husband that perhaps you
didn't."
"How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the
matter."
"It's probably because he doesn't know how to speak of it."
"It's nevertheless the sort of question in which he's rarely at fault."
"Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well what to think.
To-day he doesn't."
"Haven't you been telling him?" Isabel asked.
Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. "Do you know you're a
little dry?"
"Yes; I can't help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me."
"In that there's some reason. You're so near the child."
"Ah," said Isabel, "for all the comfort I've given him! If you think me
dry, I wonder what HE thinks."
"I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done."
"I can do nothing."
"You can do more at least than I. I don't know what mysterious
connection he may have discovered between me and Pansy; but he came to
me from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keeps
coming back, to spur me up, to know what hope there is, to pour out his
feelings."
"He's very much in love," said Isabel.
"Very much--for him."
"Very much for Pansy, you might say as well."
Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. "Don't you think she's
attractive?"
"The dearest little person possible--but very limited."
"She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier's not
unlimited."
"No," said Isabel, "he has about the extent of one's
pocket-handkerchief--the small ones with lace borders." Her humour had
lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamed
of exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy's suitor. "He's very
kind, very honest," she presently added; "and he's not such a fool as he
seems."
"He assures me that she delights in him," said Madame Merle.
"I don't know; I've not asked her."
"You've never sounded her a little?"
"It's not my place; it's her father's."
"Ah, you're too literal!" said Madame Merle.
"I must judge for myself."
Madame Merle gave her smile again. "It isn't easy to help you."
"To help me?" said Isabel very seriously. "What do you mean?"
"It's easy to displease you. Don't you see how wise I am to be careful?
I notify you, at any rate, as I notified Osmond, that I wash my hands of
the love-affairs of Miss Pansy and Mr. Edward Rosier. Je n'y peux rien,
moi! I can't talk to Pansy about him. Especially," added Madame Merle,
"as I don't think him a paragon of husbands."
Isabel reflected a little; after which, with a smile, "You don't wash
your hands then!" she said. After which again she added in another tone:
"You can't--you're too much interested."
Madame Merle slowly rose; she had given Isabel a look as rapid as the
intimation that had gleamed before our heroine a few moments before.
Only this time the latter saw nothing. "Ask him the next time, and
you'll see."
"I can't ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has let
him know that he's not welcome."
"Ah yes," said Madame Merle, "I forgot that--though it's the burden of
his lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted him. All the same," she
went on, "Osmond doesn't dislike him so much as he thinks." She had got
up as if to close the conversation, but she lingered, looking about her,
and had evidently more to say. Isabel perceived this and even saw the
point she had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not
opening the way.
"That must have pleased him, if you've told him," she answered, smiling.
"Certainly I've told him; as far as that goes I've encouraged him. I've
preached patience, have said that his case isn't desperate if he'll only
hold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into his
head to be jealous."
"Jealous?"
"Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here."
Isabel, who was tired, had remained sitting; but at this she also rose.
"Ah!" she exclaimed simply, moving slowly to the fireplace. Madame
Merle observed her as she passed and while she stood a moment before the
mantel-glass and pushed into its place a wandering tress of hair.
"Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there's nothing impossible in Lord
Warburton's falling in love with Pansy," Madame Merle went on. Isabel
was silent a little; she turned away from the glass. "It's true--there's
nothing impossible," she returned at last, gravely and more gently.
"So I've had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husband thinks."
"That I don't know."
"Ask him and you'll see."
"I shall not ask him," said Isabel.
"Pardon me; I forgot you had pointed that out. Of course," Madame Merle
added, "you've had infinitely more observation of Lord Warburton's
behaviour than I."
"I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you that he likes my stepdaughter
very much."
Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. "Likes her, you mean--as
Mr. Rosier means?"
"I don't know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburton has let me know
that he's charmed with Pansy."
"And you've never told Osmond?" This observation was immediate,
precipitate; it almost burst from Madame Merle's lips.
Isabel's eyes rested on her. "I suppose he'll know in time; Lord
Warburton has a tongue and knows how to express himself."
Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken more quickly
than usual, and the reflection brought the colour to her cheek. She gave
the treacherous impulse time to subside and then said as if she had been
thinking it over a little: "That would be better than marrying poor Mr.
Rosier."
"Much better, I think."
"It would be very delightful; it would be a great marriage. It's really
very kind of him."
"Very kind of him?"
"To drop his eyes on a simple little girl."
"I don't see that."
"It's very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond--"
"After all, Pansy Osmond's the most attractive person he has ever
known!" Isabel exclaimed.
Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. "Ah, a moment
ago I thought you seemed rather to disparage her."
"I said she was limited. And so she is. And so's Lord Warburton."
"So are we all, if you come to that. If it's no more than Pansy
deserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections on Mr. Rosier
I won't admit that she deserves it. That will be too perverse."
"Mr. Rosier's a nuisance!" Isabel cried abruptly.
"I quite agree with you, and I'm delighted to know that I'm not expected
to feed his flame. For the future, when he calls on me, my door shall be
closed to him." And gathering her mantle together Madame Merle prepared
to depart. She was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by an
inconsequent request from Isabel.
"All the same, you know, be kind to him."
She lifted her shoulders and eyebrows and stood looking at her friend.
"I don't understand your contradictions! Decidedly I shan't be kind to
him, for it will be a false kindness. I want to see her married to Lord
Warburton."
"You had better wait till he asks her."
"If what you say's true, he'll ask her. Especially," said Madame Merle
in a moment, "if you make him."
"If I make him?"
"It's quite in your power. You've great influence with him."
Isabel frowned a little. "Where did you learn that?"
"Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you--never!" said Madame Merle, smiling.
"I certainly never told you anything of the sort."
"You MIGHT have done so--so far as opportunity went--when we were by
way of being confidential with each other. But you really told me very
little; I've often thought so since."
Isabel had thought so too, and sometimes with a certain satisfaction.
But she didn't admit it now--perhaps because she wished not to appear to
exult in it. "You seem to have had an excellent informant in my aunt,"
she simply returned.
"She let me know you had declined an offer of marriage from Lord
Warburton, because she was greatly vexed and was full of the subject.
Of course I think you've done better in doing as you did. But if you
wouldn't marry Lord Warburton yourself, make him the reparation of
helping him to marry some one else."
Isabel listened to this with a face that persisted in not reflecting
the bright expressiveness of Madame Merle's. But in a moment she said,
reasonably and gently enough: "I should be very glad indeed if, as
regards Pansy, it could be arranged." Upon which her companion, who
seemed to regard this as a speech of good omen, embraced her more
tenderly than might have been expected and triumphantly withdrew.
| The situation between Lord Warburton and Pansy presents us with an interesting situation that allows Isabel to think about the right motivations behind an action. If Lord Warburton is marrying Pansy in order to please Isabel, she sees that it would be wrong of her to take advantage of this. Yet Isabel realizes that this is exactly what Madame Merle and Osmond expect of her: they expect her to have no qualms about using another person for one's own ends. This makes her reflect on the moral character of the people around her. As Robert Pippin has pointed out , the modern situation that Henry James was facing during his time introduced the possibility that psychological motivations made an action moral or immoral. For example, if Osmond had married Isabel just for his own self-interest and to increase his fortune, it would be immoral. But Isabel had married Osmond because she had wanted to give him the means to further express himself, and this is considered moral. However, the problem being presented in the novel is that psychological motivations only crystallize as such later on in life. It is important to note the technique that James employs to enter into Isabel's mind. He first of all has set up the scene so that we have only gradually approached Isabel's true state of mind through the speculations of others. We first get Edward Rosier's speculations of Isabel, then Lord Warburton's, then Ralph's, until we finally approach Isabel's own. It is like peeling the layers off of an onion until we reach the core of Isabel's thought. Furthermore, there is an indication that Isabel's own thoughts are very much infected and inflected through her understanding of the thoughts of others. Sharon Cameron has called this the 'intersubjectivity' of the novel: the belief that one's mind is not entirely one's own, but rather a consciousness crystallizes as such only once one knows what others are thinking. Finally, Chapter 42 provides us with insight into James' views on the conventional Old World. Osmond is representative of empty traditions without any intrinsic meaning. He follows them simply to show his own aristocratic value. At best, this Old World is capable of showing itself off through aesthetics -- knowledge about classical art, for example, would let one show off how cultured one is. However, James is questioning whether or not this aristocratic, European view of the world would not benefit from the freshness of an American, moral perspective. Isabel is representative of the New World, and the insights that an open mind can provide to a European outlook. She wants to always look at things for herself, bring her own original perspective, and question the meaning of traditions. Yet it is problematic that she has only two means of expressing herself: money and marriage. There seems also to be a feminist point being made here, especially in Isabel's envy of Lord Warburton. Women did not have enough avenues open to them during this time period for expression of their character, and James seems to be suggesting that they would have something very valuable to add to society if more pathways were open to them to do so. | analysis |
Osmond touched on this matter that evening for the first time; coming
very late into the drawing-room, where she was sitting alone. They had
spent the evening at home, and Pansy had gone to bed; he himself had
been sitting since dinner in a small apartment in which he had arranged
his books and which he called his study. At ten o'clock Lord Warburton
had come in, as he always did when he knew from Isabel that she was to
be at home; he was going somewhere else and he sat for half an hour.
Isabel, after asking him for news of Ralph, said very little to him, on
purpose; she wished him to talk with her stepdaughter. She pretended to
read; she even went after a little to the piano; she asked herself if
she mightn't leave the room. She had come little by little to think
well of the idea of Pansy's becoming the wife of the master of beautiful
Lockleigh, though at first it had not presented itself in a manner to
excite her enthusiasm. Madame Merle, that afternoon, had applied the
match to an accumulation of inflammable material. When Isabel was
unhappy she always looked about her--partly from impulse and partly by
theory--for some form of positive exertion. She could never rid herself
of the sense that unhappiness was a state of disease--of suffering as
opposed to doing. To "do"--it hardly mattered what--would therefore
be an escape, perhaps in some degree a remedy. Besides, she wished to
convince herself that she had done everything possible to content her
husband; she was determined not to be haunted by visions of his wife's
limpness under appeal. It would please him greatly to see Pansy married
to an English nobleman, and justly please him, since this nobleman was
so sound a character. It seemed to Isabel that if she could make it her
duty to bring about such an event she should play the part of a good
wife. She wanted to be that; she wanted to be able to believe sincerely,
and with proof of it, that she had been that. Then such an undertaking
had other recommendations. It would occupy her, and she desired
occupation. It would even amuse her, and if she could really amuse
herself she perhaps might be saved. Lastly, it would be a service to
Lord Warburton, who evidently pleased himself greatly with the charming
girl. It was a little "weird" he should--being what he was; but there
was no accounting for such impressions. Pansy might captivate any
one--any one at least but Lord Warburton. Isabel would have thought her
too small, too slight, perhaps even too artificial for that. There was
always a little of the doll about her, and that was not what he had been
looking for. Still, who could say what men ever were looking for? They
looked for what they found; they knew what pleased them only when
they saw it. No theory was valid in such matters, and nothing was more
unaccountable or more natural than anything else. If he had cared for
HER it might seem odd he should care for Pansy, who was so different;
but he had not cared for her so much as he had supposed. Or if he had,
he had completely got over it, and it was natural that, as that affair
had failed, he should think something of quite another sort might
succeed. Enthusiasm, as I say, had not come at first to Isabel, but
it came to-day and made her feel almost happy. It was astonishing what
happiness she could still find in the idea of procuring a pleasure for
her husband. It was a pity, however, that Edward Rosier had crossed
their path!
At this reflection the light that had suddenly gleamed upon that path
lost something of its brightness. Isabel was unfortunately as sure that
Pansy thought Mr. Rosier the nicest of all the young men--as sure as if
she had held an interview with her on the subject. It was very tiresome
she should be so sure, when she had carefully abstained from informing
herself; almost as tiresome as that poor Mr. Rosier should have taken it
into his own head. He was certainly very inferior to Lord Warburton. It
was not the difference in fortune so much as the difference in the men;
the young American was really so light a weight. He was much more of
the type of the useless fine gentleman than the English nobleman. It
was true that there was no particular reason why Pansy should marry a
statesman; still, if a statesman admired her, that was his affair, and
she would make a perfect little pearl of a peeress.
It may seem to the reader that Mrs. Osmond had grown of a sudden
strangely cynical, for she ended by saying to herself that this
difficulty could probably be arranged. An impediment that was embodied
in poor Rosier could not anyhow present itself as a dangerous one; there
were always means of levelling secondary obstacles. Isabel was perfectly
aware that she had not taken the measure of Pansy's tenacity, which
might prove to be inconveniently great; but she inclined to see her
as rather letting go, under suggestion, than as clutching under
deprecation--since she had certainly the faculty of assent developed in
a very much higher degree than that of protest. She would cling, yes,
she would cling; but it really mattered to her very little what she
clung to. Lord Warburton would do as well as Mr. Rosier--especially as
she seemed quite to like him; she had expressed this sentiment to Isabel
without a single reservation; she had said she thought his conversation
most interesting--he had told her all about India. His manner to Pansy
had been of the rightest and easiest--Isabel noticed that for herself,
as she also observed that he talked to her not in the least in a
patronising way, reminding himself of her youth and simplicity, but
quite as if she understood his subjects with that sufficiency with which
she followed those of the fashionable operas. This went far enough
for attention to the music and the barytone. He was careful only to be
kind--he was as kind as he had been to another fluttered young chit at
Gardencourt. A girl might well be touched by that; she remembered how
she herself had been touched, and said to herself that if she had been
as simple as Pansy the impression would have been deeper still. She
had not been simple when she refused him; that operation had been
as complicated as, later, her acceptance of Osmond had been. Pansy,
however, in spite of HER simplicity, really did understand, and was
glad that Lord Warburton should talk to her, not about her partners and
bouquets, but about the state of Italy, the condition of the peasantry,
the famous grist-tax, the pellagra, his impressions of Roman society.
She looked at him, as she drew her needle through her tapestry, with
sweet submissive eyes, and when she lowered them she gave little quiet
oblique glances at his person, his hands, his feet, his clothes, as if
she were considering him. Even his person, Isabel might have reminded
her, was better than Mr. Rosier's. But Isabel contented herself at such
moments with wondering where this gentleman was; he came no more at all
to Palazzo Roccanera. It was surprising, as I say, the hold it had taken
of her--the idea of assisting her husband to be pleased.
It was surprising for a variety of reasons which I shall presently touch
upon. On the evening I speak of, while Lord Warburton sat there, she had
been on the point of taking the great step of going out of the room and
leaving her companions alone. I say the great step, because it was in
this light that Gilbert Osmond would have regarded it, and Isabel was
trying as much as possible to take her husband's view. She succeeded
after a fashion, but she fell short of the point I mention. After all
she couldn't rise to it; something held her and made this impossible.
It was not exactly that it would be base or insidious; for women as a
general thing practise such manoeuvres with a perfectly good conscience,
and Isabel was instinctively much more true than false to the common
genius of her sex. There was a vague doubt that interposed--a sense that
she was not quite sure. So she remained in the drawing-room, and after a
while Lord Warburton went off to his party, of which he promised to give
Pansy a full account on the morrow. After he had gone she wondered
if she had prevented something which would have happened if she
had absented herself for a quarter of an hour; and then she
pronounced--always mentally--that when their distinguished visitor
should wish her to go away he would easily find means to let her know
it. Pansy said nothing whatever about him after he had gone, and Isabel
studiously said nothing, as she had taken a vow of reserve until after
he should have declared himself. He was a little longer in coming to
this than might seem to accord with the description he had given Isabel
of his feelings. Pansy went to bed, and Isabel had to admit that
she could not now guess what her stepdaughter was thinking of. Her
transparent little companion was for the moment not to be seen through.
She remained alone, looking at the fire, until, at the end of half an
hour, her husband came in. He moved about a while in silence and
then sat down; he looked at the fire like herself. But she now had
transferred her eyes from the flickering flame in the chimney to
Osmond's face, and she watched him while he kept his silence. Covert
observation had become a habit with her; an instinct, of which it is not
an exaggeration to say that it was allied to that of self-defence, had
made it habitual. She wished as much as possible to know his thoughts,
to know what he would say, beforehand, so that she might prepare her
answer. Preparing answers had not been her strong point of old; she had
rarely in this respect got further than thinking afterwards of clever
things she might have said. But she had learned caution--learned it in
a measure from her husband's very countenance. It was the same face she
had looked into with eyes equally earnest perhaps, but less penetrating,
on the terrace of a Florentine villa; except that Osmond had grown
slightly stouter since his marriage. He still, however, might strike one
as very distinguished.
"Has Lord Warburton been here?" he presently asked.
"Yes, he stayed half an hour."
"Did he see Pansy?"
"Yes; he sat on the sofa beside her."
"Did he talk with her much?"
"He talked almost only to her."
"It seems to me he's attentive. Isn't that what you call it?"
"I don't call it anything," said Isabel; "I've waited for you to give it
a name."
"That's a consideration you don't always show," Osmond answered after a
moment.
"I've determined, this time, to try and act as you'd like. I've so often
failed of that."
Osmond turned his head slowly, looking at her. "Are you trying to
quarrel with me?"
"No, I'm trying to live at peace."
"Nothing's more easy; you know I don't quarrel myself."
"What do you call it when you try to make me angry?" Isabel asked.
"I don't try; if I've done so it has been the most natural thing in the
world. Moreover I'm not in the least trying now."
Isabel smiled. "It doesn't matter. I've determined never to be angry
again."
"That's an excellent resolve. Your temper isn't good."
"No--it's not good." She pushed away the book she had been reading and
took up the band of tapestry Pansy had left on the table.
"That's partly why I've not spoken to you about this business of my
daughter's," Osmond said, designating Pansy in the manner that was most
frequent with him. "I was afraid I should encounter opposition--that you
too would have views on the subject. I've sent little Rosier about his
business."
"You were afraid I'd plead for Mr. Rosier? Haven't you noticed that I've
never spoken to you of him?"
"I've never given you a chance. We've so little conversation in these
days. I know he was an old friend of yours."
"Yes; he's an old friend of mine." Isabel cared little more for him than
for the tapestry that she held in her hand; but it was true that he
was an old friend and that with her husband she felt a desire not to
extenuate such ties. He had a way of expressing contempt for them which
fortified her loyalty to them, even when, as in the present case, they
were in themselves insignificant. She sometimes felt a sort of passion
of tenderness for memories which had no other merit than that they
belonged to her unmarried life. "But as regards Pansy," she added in a
moment, "I've given him no encouragement."
"That's fortunate," Osmond observed.
"Fortunate for me, I suppose you mean. For him it matters little."
"There's no use talking of him," Osmond said. "As I tell you, I've
turned him out."
"Yes; but a lover outside's always a lover. He's sometimes even more of
one. Mr. Rosier still has hope."
"He's welcome to the comfort of it! My daughter has only to sit
perfectly quiet to become Lady Warburton."
"Should you like that?" Isabel asked with a simplicity which was not
so affected as it may appear. She was resolved to assume nothing, for
Osmond had a way of unexpectedly turning her assumptions against her.
The intensity with which he would like his daughter to become Lady
Warburton had been the very basis of her own recent reflections. But
that was for herself; she would recognise nothing until Osmond should
have put it into words; she would not take for granted with him that
he thought Lord Warburton a prize worth an amount of effort that was
unusual among the Osmonds. It was Gilbert's constant intimation that for
him nothing in life was a prize; that he treated as from equal to equal
with the most distinguished people in the world, and that his daughter
had only to look about her to pick out a prince. It cost him therefore
a lapse from consistency to say explicitly that he yearned for Lord
Warburton and that if this nobleman should escape his equivalent might
not be found; with which moreover it was another of his customary
implications that he was never inconsistent. He would have liked his
wife to glide over the point. But strangely enough, now that she
was face to face with him and although an hour before she had almost
invented a scheme for pleasing him, Isabel was not accommodating,
would not glide. And yet she knew exactly the effect on his mind of
her question: it would operate as an humiliation. Never mind; he was
terribly capable of humiliating her--all the more so that he was also
capable of waiting for great opportunities and of showing sometimes an
almost unaccountable indifference to small ones. Isabel perhaps took a
small opportunity because she would not have availed herself of a great
one.
Osmond at present acquitted himself very honourably. "I should like it
extremely; it would be a great marriage. And then Lord Warburton has
another advantage: he's an old friend of yours. It would be pleasant for
him to come into the family. It's very odd Pansy's admirers should all
be your old friends."
"It's natural that they should come to see me. In coming to see me they
see Pansy. Seeing her it's natural they should fall in love with her."
"So I think. But you're not bound to do so."
"If she should marry Lord Warburton I should be very glad," Isabel went
on frankly. "He's an excellent man. You say, however, that she has only
to sit perfectly still. Perhaps she won't sit perfectly still. If she
loses Mr. Rosier she may jump up!"
Osmond appeared to give no heed to this; he sat gazing at the fire.
"Pansy would like to be a great lady," he remarked in a moment with a
certain tenderness of tone. "She wishes above all to please," he added.
"To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps."
"No, to please me."
"Me too a little, I think," said Isabel.
"Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she'll do what I like."
"If you're sure of that, it's very well," she went on.
"Meantime," said Osmond, "I should like our distinguished visitor to
speak."
"He has spoken--to me. He has told me it would be a great pleasure to
him to believe she could care for him."
Osmond turned his head quickly, but at first he said nothing. Then, "Why
didn't you tell me that?" he asked sharply.
"There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I've taken the first
chance that has offered."
"Did you speak to him of Rosier?"
"Oh yes, a little."
"That was hardly necessary."
"I thought it best he should know, so that, so that--" And Isabel
paused.
"So that what?"
"So that he might act accordingly."
"So that he might back out, do you mean?"
"No, so that he might advance while there's yet time."
"That's not the effect it seems to have had."
"You should have patience," said Isabel. "You know Englishmen are shy."
"This one's not. He was not when he made love to YOU."
She had been afraid Osmond would speak of that; it was disagreeable to
her. "I beg your pardon; he was extremely so," she returned.
He answered nothing for some time; he took up a book and fingered the
pages while she sat silent and occupied herself with Pansy's tapestry.
"You must have a great deal of influence with him," Osmond went on at
last. "The moment you really wish it you can bring him to the point."
This was more offensive still; but she felt the great naturalness of
his saying it, and it was after all extremely like what she had said
to herself. "Why should I have influence?" she asked. "What have I ever
done to put him under an obligation to me?"
"You refused to marry him," said Osmond with his eyes on his book.
"I must not presume too much on that," she replied.
He threw down the book presently and got up, standing before the fire
with his hands behind him. "Well, I hold that it lies in your hands. I
shall leave it there. With a little good-will you may manage it. Think
that over and remember how much I count on you." He waited a little,
to give her time to answer; but she answered nothing, and he presently
strolled out of the room.
| Isabel is not excited by the idea of Pansy and Lord Warburton marrying initially, but she allows the idea to settle in her mind. She realizes that she would be acting her part as a good wife if she were to assist the match in being made. Yet, she is also surprised that Lord Warburton would be attracted to Pansy -- for Pansy is very different from Isabel herself. She thinks of Pansy as small, an innocent but limited creature. Nevertheless, Isabel contents herself with the idea of providing a service for her husband. Of course, Isabel thinks to herself, Edward Rosier presents a problem. Isabel had tried not to inform herself of Pansy's feelings for Mr. Rosier, but she finds that she knows that Pansy thinks the world of him. She wonders how tenacious Pansy will be in clinging to her idea of Edward Rosier - Isabel then begins to believe that Pansy could cling to just anything. Isabel after all thinks more highly of Lord Warburton than Edward Rosier. This scene within Isabel's mind takes place as Isabel is having another of her Thursday gatherings. Lord Warburton is there, speaking with Pansy. Isabel knows that if she leaves the two alone in a room together, Lord Warburton may declare his feelings for Pansy and set in motion a proposal. But she hesitates to do this act that would please her husband. Lord Warburton ends up leaving for the night without a moment alone with Pansy. Isabel then sits alone in a room staring at the fire. Her husband enters the room, and asks about Lord Warburton's interest in Pansy. Isabel says she has been waiting for Osmond to give it a name. The narrator tells us that Isabel has decided not to take it for granted that her husband would like Lord Warburton -- and further, she is motivated by the thought that Osmond's declaring a desire to see Lord Warburton propose would show that Osmond did in fact want something from the world. She thinks it is his constant intimation that he wants nothing of the world - that nothing could be good enough for him. Thus his declaration of a desire for a proposal from Lord Warburton would be a lapse in consistency. Isabel then also thinks to herself that her husband may very well decide to take this opportunity to humiliate Isabel. Osmond behaves well on this occasion though. He simply asks Isabel to help along the match. He then suggests to Isabel that she can make Lord Warburton do whatever she would like him to do - and that she should use this influence to make him marry Pansy | summary |
Osmond touched on this matter that evening for the first time; coming
very late into the drawing-room, where she was sitting alone. They had
spent the evening at home, and Pansy had gone to bed; he himself had
been sitting since dinner in a small apartment in which he had arranged
his books and which he called his study. At ten o'clock Lord Warburton
had come in, as he always did when he knew from Isabel that she was to
be at home; he was going somewhere else and he sat for half an hour.
Isabel, after asking him for news of Ralph, said very little to him, on
purpose; she wished him to talk with her stepdaughter. She pretended to
read; she even went after a little to the piano; she asked herself if
she mightn't leave the room. She had come little by little to think
well of the idea of Pansy's becoming the wife of the master of beautiful
Lockleigh, though at first it had not presented itself in a manner to
excite her enthusiasm. Madame Merle, that afternoon, had applied the
match to an accumulation of inflammable material. When Isabel was
unhappy she always looked about her--partly from impulse and partly by
theory--for some form of positive exertion. She could never rid herself
of the sense that unhappiness was a state of disease--of suffering as
opposed to doing. To "do"--it hardly mattered what--would therefore
be an escape, perhaps in some degree a remedy. Besides, she wished to
convince herself that she had done everything possible to content her
husband; she was determined not to be haunted by visions of his wife's
limpness under appeal. It would please him greatly to see Pansy married
to an English nobleman, and justly please him, since this nobleman was
so sound a character. It seemed to Isabel that if she could make it her
duty to bring about such an event she should play the part of a good
wife. She wanted to be that; she wanted to be able to believe sincerely,
and with proof of it, that she had been that. Then such an undertaking
had other recommendations. It would occupy her, and she desired
occupation. It would even amuse her, and if she could really amuse
herself she perhaps might be saved. Lastly, it would be a service to
Lord Warburton, who evidently pleased himself greatly with the charming
girl. It was a little "weird" he should--being what he was; but there
was no accounting for such impressions. Pansy might captivate any
one--any one at least but Lord Warburton. Isabel would have thought her
too small, too slight, perhaps even too artificial for that. There was
always a little of the doll about her, and that was not what he had been
looking for. Still, who could say what men ever were looking for? They
looked for what they found; they knew what pleased them only when
they saw it. No theory was valid in such matters, and nothing was more
unaccountable or more natural than anything else. If he had cared for
HER it might seem odd he should care for Pansy, who was so different;
but he had not cared for her so much as he had supposed. Or if he had,
he had completely got over it, and it was natural that, as that affair
had failed, he should think something of quite another sort might
succeed. Enthusiasm, as I say, had not come at first to Isabel, but
it came to-day and made her feel almost happy. It was astonishing what
happiness she could still find in the idea of procuring a pleasure for
her husband. It was a pity, however, that Edward Rosier had crossed
their path!
At this reflection the light that had suddenly gleamed upon that path
lost something of its brightness. Isabel was unfortunately as sure that
Pansy thought Mr. Rosier the nicest of all the young men--as sure as if
she had held an interview with her on the subject. It was very tiresome
she should be so sure, when she had carefully abstained from informing
herself; almost as tiresome as that poor Mr. Rosier should have taken it
into his own head. He was certainly very inferior to Lord Warburton. It
was not the difference in fortune so much as the difference in the men;
the young American was really so light a weight. He was much more of
the type of the useless fine gentleman than the English nobleman. It
was true that there was no particular reason why Pansy should marry a
statesman; still, if a statesman admired her, that was his affair, and
she would make a perfect little pearl of a peeress.
It may seem to the reader that Mrs. Osmond had grown of a sudden
strangely cynical, for she ended by saying to herself that this
difficulty could probably be arranged. An impediment that was embodied
in poor Rosier could not anyhow present itself as a dangerous one; there
were always means of levelling secondary obstacles. Isabel was perfectly
aware that she had not taken the measure of Pansy's tenacity, which
might prove to be inconveniently great; but she inclined to see her
as rather letting go, under suggestion, than as clutching under
deprecation--since she had certainly the faculty of assent developed in
a very much higher degree than that of protest. She would cling, yes,
she would cling; but it really mattered to her very little what she
clung to. Lord Warburton would do as well as Mr. Rosier--especially as
she seemed quite to like him; she had expressed this sentiment to Isabel
without a single reservation; she had said she thought his conversation
most interesting--he had told her all about India. His manner to Pansy
had been of the rightest and easiest--Isabel noticed that for herself,
as she also observed that he talked to her not in the least in a
patronising way, reminding himself of her youth and simplicity, but
quite as if she understood his subjects with that sufficiency with which
she followed those of the fashionable operas. This went far enough
for attention to the music and the barytone. He was careful only to be
kind--he was as kind as he had been to another fluttered young chit at
Gardencourt. A girl might well be touched by that; she remembered how
she herself had been touched, and said to herself that if she had been
as simple as Pansy the impression would have been deeper still. She
had not been simple when she refused him; that operation had been
as complicated as, later, her acceptance of Osmond had been. Pansy,
however, in spite of HER simplicity, really did understand, and was
glad that Lord Warburton should talk to her, not about her partners and
bouquets, but about the state of Italy, the condition of the peasantry,
the famous grist-tax, the pellagra, his impressions of Roman society.
She looked at him, as she drew her needle through her tapestry, with
sweet submissive eyes, and when she lowered them she gave little quiet
oblique glances at his person, his hands, his feet, his clothes, as if
she were considering him. Even his person, Isabel might have reminded
her, was better than Mr. Rosier's. But Isabel contented herself at such
moments with wondering where this gentleman was; he came no more at all
to Palazzo Roccanera. It was surprising, as I say, the hold it had taken
of her--the idea of assisting her husband to be pleased.
It was surprising for a variety of reasons which I shall presently touch
upon. On the evening I speak of, while Lord Warburton sat there, she had
been on the point of taking the great step of going out of the room and
leaving her companions alone. I say the great step, because it was in
this light that Gilbert Osmond would have regarded it, and Isabel was
trying as much as possible to take her husband's view. She succeeded
after a fashion, but she fell short of the point I mention. After all
she couldn't rise to it; something held her and made this impossible.
It was not exactly that it would be base or insidious; for women as a
general thing practise such manoeuvres with a perfectly good conscience,
and Isabel was instinctively much more true than false to the common
genius of her sex. There was a vague doubt that interposed--a sense that
she was not quite sure. So she remained in the drawing-room, and after a
while Lord Warburton went off to his party, of which he promised to give
Pansy a full account on the morrow. After he had gone she wondered
if she had prevented something which would have happened if she
had absented herself for a quarter of an hour; and then she
pronounced--always mentally--that when their distinguished visitor
should wish her to go away he would easily find means to let her know
it. Pansy said nothing whatever about him after he had gone, and Isabel
studiously said nothing, as she had taken a vow of reserve until after
he should have declared himself. He was a little longer in coming to
this than might seem to accord with the description he had given Isabel
of his feelings. Pansy went to bed, and Isabel had to admit that
she could not now guess what her stepdaughter was thinking of. Her
transparent little companion was for the moment not to be seen through.
She remained alone, looking at the fire, until, at the end of half an
hour, her husband came in. He moved about a while in silence and
then sat down; he looked at the fire like herself. But she now had
transferred her eyes from the flickering flame in the chimney to
Osmond's face, and she watched him while he kept his silence. Covert
observation had become a habit with her; an instinct, of which it is not
an exaggeration to say that it was allied to that of self-defence, had
made it habitual. She wished as much as possible to know his thoughts,
to know what he would say, beforehand, so that she might prepare her
answer. Preparing answers had not been her strong point of old; she had
rarely in this respect got further than thinking afterwards of clever
things she might have said. But she had learned caution--learned it in
a measure from her husband's very countenance. It was the same face she
had looked into with eyes equally earnest perhaps, but less penetrating,
on the terrace of a Florentine villa; except that Osmond had grown
slightly stouter since his marriage. He still, however, might strike one
as very distinguished.
"Has Lord Warburton been here?" he presently asked.
"Yes, he stayed half an hour."
"Did he see Pansy?"
"Yes; he sat on the sofa beside her."
"Did he talk with her much?"
"He talked almost only to her."
"It seems to me he's attentive. Isn't that what you call it?"
"I don't call it anything," said Isabel; "I've waited for you to give it
a name."
"That's a consideration you don't always show," Osmond answered after a
moment.
"I've determined, this time, to try and act as you'd like. I've so often
failed of that."
Osmond turned his head slowly, looking at her. "Are you trying to
quarrel with me?"
"No, I'm trying to live at peace."
"Nothing's more easy; you know I don't quarrel myself."
"What do you call it when you try to make me angry?" Isabel asked.
"I don't try; if I've done so it has been the most natural thing in the
world. Moreover I'm not in the least trying now."
Isabel smiled. "It doesn't matter. I've determined never to be angry
again."
"That's an excellent resolve. Your temper isn't good."
"No--it's not good." She pushed away the book she had been reading and
took up the band of tapestry Pansy had left on the table.
"That's partly why I've not spoken to you about this business of my
daughter's," Osmond said, designating Pansy in the manner that was most
frequent with him. "I was afraid I should encounter opposition--that you
too would have views on the subject. I've sent little Rosier about his
business."
"You were afraid I'd plead for Mr. Rosier? Haven't you noticed that I've
never spoken to you of him?"
"I've never given you a chance. We've so little conversation in these
days. I know he was an old friend of yours."
"Yes; he's an old friend of mine." Isabel cared little more for him than
for the tapestry that she held in her hand; but it was true that he
was an old friend and that with her husband she felt a desire not to
extenuate such ties. He had a way of expressing contempt for them which
fortified her loyalty to them, even when, as in the present case, they
were in themselves insignificant. She sometimes felt a sort of passion
of tenderness for memories which had no other merit than that they
belonged to her unmarried life. "But as regards Pansy," she added in a
moment, "I've given him no encouragement."
"That's fortunate," Osmond observed.
"Fortunate for me, I suppose you mean. For him it matters little."
"There's no use talking of him," Osmond said. "As I tell you, I've
turned him out."
"Yes; but a lover outside's always a lover. He's sometimes even more of
one. Mr. Rosier still has hope."
"He's welcome to the comfort of it! My daughter has only to sit
perfectly quiet to become Lady Warburton."
"Should you like that?" Isabel asked with a simplicity which was not
so affected as it may appear. She was resolved to assume nothing, for
Osmond had a way of unexpectedly turning her assumptions against her.
The intensity with which he would like his daughter to become Lady
Warburton had been the very basis of her own recent reflections. But
that was for herself; she would recognise nothing until Osmond should
have put it into words; she would not take for granted with him that
he thought Lord Warburton a prize worth an amount of effort that was
unusual among the Osmonds. It was Gilbert's constant intimation that for
him nothing in life was a prize; that he treated as from equal to equal
with the most distinguished people in the world, and that his daughter
had only to look about her to pick out a prince. It cost him therefore
a lapse from consistency to say explicitly that he yearned for Lord
Warburton and that if this nobleman should escape his equivalent might
not be found; with which moreover it was another of his customary
implications that he was never inconsistent. He would have liked his
wife to glide over the point. But strangely enough, now that she
was face to face with him and although an hour before she had almost
invented a scheme for pleasing him, Isabel was not accommodating,
would not glide. And yet she knew exactly the effect on his mind of
her question: it would operate as an humiliation. Never mind; he was
terribly capable of humiliating her--all the more so that he was also
capable of waiting for great opportunities and of showing sometimes an
almost unaccountable indifference to small ones. Isabel perhaps took a
small opportunity because she would not have availed herself of a great
one.
Osmond at present acquitted himself very honourably. "I should like it
extremely; it would be a great marriage. And then Lord Warburton has
another advantage: he's an old friend of yours. It would be pleasant for
him to come into the family. It's very odd Pansy's admirers should all
be your old friends."
"It's natural that they should come to see me. In coming to see me they
see Pansy. Seeing her it's natural they should fall in love with her."
"So I think. But you're not bound to do so."
"If she should marry Lord Warburton I should be very glad," Isabel went
on frankly. "He's an excellent man. You say, however, that she has only
to sit perfectly still. Perhaps she won't sit perfectly still. If she
loses Mr. Rosier she may jump up!"
Osmond appeared to give no heed to this; he sat gazing at the fire.
"Pansy would like to be a great lady," he remarked in a moment with a
certain tenderness of tone. "She wishes above all to please," he added.
"To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps."
"No, to please me."
"Me too a little, I think," said Isabel.
"Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she'll do what I like."
"If you're sure of that, it's very well," she went on.
"Meantime," said Osmond, "I should like our distinguished visitor to
speak."
"He has spoken--to me. He has told me it would be a great pleasure to
him to believe she could care for him."
Osmond turned his head quickly, but at first he said nothing. Then, "Why
didn't you tell me that?" he asked sharply.
"There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I've taken the first
chance that has offered."
"Did you speak to him of Rosier?"
"Oh yes, a little."
"That was hardly necessary."
"I thought it best he should know, so that, so that--" And Isabel
paused.
"So that what?"
"So that he might act accordingly."
"So that he might back out, do you mean?"
"No, so that he might advance while there's yet time."
"That's not the effect it seems to have had."
"You should have patience," said Isabel. "You know Englishmen are shy."
"This one's not. He was not when he made love to YOU."
She had been afraid Osmond would speak of that; it was disagreeable to
her. "I beg your pardon; he was extremely so," she returned.
He answered nothing for some time; he took up a book and fingered the
pages while she sat silent and occupied herself with Pansy's tapestry.
"You must have a great deal of influence with him," Osmond went on at
last. "The moment you really wish it you can bring him to the point."
This was more offensive still; but she felt the great naturalness of
his saying it, and it was after all extremely like what she had said
to herself. "Why should I have influence?" she asked. "What have I ever
done to put him under an obligation to me?"
"You refused to marry him," said Osmond with his eyes on his book.
"I must not presume too much on that," she replied.
He threw down the book presently and got up, standing before the fire
with his hands behind him. "Well, I hold that it lies in your hands. I
shall leave it there. With a little good-will you may manage it. Think
that over and remember how much I count on you." He waited a little,
to give her time to answer; but she answered nothing, and he presently
strolled out of the room.
| The situation between Lord Warburton and Pansy presents us with an interesting situation that allows Isabel to think about the right motivations behind an action. If Lord Warburton is marrying Pansy in order to please Isabel, she sees that it would be wrong of her to take advantage of this. Yet Isabel realizes that this is exactly what Madame Merle and Osmond expect of her: they expect her to have no qualms about using another person for one's own ends. This makes her reflect on the moral character of the people around her. As Robert Pippin has pointed out , the modern situation that Henry James was facing during his time introduced the possibility that psychological motivations made an action moral or immoral. For example, if Osmond had married Isabel just for his own self-interest and to increase his fortune, it would be immoral. But Isabel had married Osmond because she had wanted to give him the means to further express himself, and this is considered moral. However, the problem being presented in the novel is that psychological motivations only crystallize as such later on in life. It is important to note the technique that James employs to enter into Isabel's mind. He first of all has set up the scene so that we have only gradually approached Isabel's true state of mind through the speculations of others. We first get Edward Rosier's speculations of Isabel, then Lord Warburton's, then Ralph's, until we finally approach Isabel's own. It is like peeling the layers off of an onion until we reach the core of Isabel's thought. Furthermore, there is an indication that Isabel's own thoughts are very much infected and inflected through her understanding of the thoughts of others. Sharon Cameron has called this the 'intersubjectivity' of the novel: the belief that one's mind is not entirely one's own, but rather a consciousness crystallizes as such only once one knows what others are thinking. Finally, Chapter 42 provides us with insight into James' views on the conventional Old World. Osmond is representative of empty traditions without any intrinsic meaning. He follows them simply to show his own aristocratic value. At best, this Old World is capable of showing itself off through aesthetics -- knowledge about classical art, for example, would let one show off how cultured one is. However, James is questioning whether or not this aristocratic, European view of the world would not benefit from the freshness of an American, moral perspective. Isabel is representative of the New World, and the insights that an open mind can provide to a European outlook. She wants to always look at things for herself, bring her own original perspective, and question the meaning of traditions. Yet it is problematic that she has only two means of expressing herself: money and marriage. There seems also to be a feminist point being made here, especially in Isabel's envy of Lord Warburton. Women did not have enough avenues open to them during this time period for expression of their character, and James seems to be suggesting that they would have something very valuable to add to society if more pathways were open to them to do so. | analysis |
She had answered nothing because his words had put the situation before
her and she was absorbed in looking at it. There was something in them
that suddenly made vibrations deep, so that she had been afraid to trust
herself to speak. After he had gone she leaned back in her chair and
closed her eyes; and for a long time, far into the night and still
further, she sat in the still drawing-room, given up to her meditation.
A servant came in to attend to the fire, and she bade him bring fresh
candles and then go to bed. Osmond had told her to think of what he had
said; and she did so indeed, and of many other things. The suggestion
from another that she had a definite influence on Lord Warburton--this
had given her the start that accompanies unexpected recognition. Was it
true that there was something still between them that might be a handle
to make him declare himself to Pansy--a susceptibility, on his part, to
approval, a desire to do what would please her? Isabel had hitherto not
asked herself the question, because she had not been forced; but now
that it was directly presented to her she saw the answer, and the answer
frightened her. Yes, there was something--something on Lord Warburton's
part. When he had first come to Rome she believed the link that united
them to be completely snapped; but little by little she had been
reminded that it had yet a palpable existence. It was as thin as a hair,
but there were moments when she seemed to hear it vibrate. For herself
nothing was changed; what she once thought of him she always thought;
it was needless this feeling should change; it seemed to her in fact a
better feeling than ever. But he? had he still the idea that she might
be more to him than other women? Had he the wish to profit by the memory
of the few moments of intimacy through which they had once passed?
Isabel knew she had read some of the signs of such a disposition. But
what were his hopes, his pretensions, and in what strange way were they
mingled with his evidently very sincere appreciation of poor Pansy? Was
he in love with Gilbert Osmond's wife, and if so what comfort did he
expect to derive from it? If he was in love with Pansy he was not in
love with her stepmother, and if he was in love with her stepmother
he was not in love with Pansy. Was she to cultivate the advantage she
possessed in order to make him commit himself to Pansy, knowing he would
do so for her sake and not for the small creature's own--was this the
service her husband had asked of her? This at any rate was the duty
with which she found herself confronted--from the moment she admitted to
herself that her old friend had still an uneradicated predilection for
her society. It was not an agreeable task; it was in fact a repulsive
one. She asked herself with dismay whether Lord Warburton were
pretending to be in love with Pansy in order to cultivate another
satisfaction and what might be called other chances. Of this refinement
of duplicity she presently acquitted him; she preferred to believe him
in perfect good faith. But if his admiration for Pansy were a delusion
this was scarcely better than its being an affectation. Isabel wandered
among these ugly possibilities until she had completely lost her way;
some of them, as she suddenly encountered them, seemed ugly enough. Then
she broke out of the labyrinth, rubbing her eyes, and declared that her
imagination surely did her little honour and that her husband's did him
even less. Lord Warburton was as disinterested as he need be, and she
was no more to him than she need wish. She would rest upon this till
the contrary should be proved; proved more effectually than by a cynical
intimation of Osmond's.
Such a resolution, however, brought her this evening but little peace,
for her soul was haunted with terrors which crowded to the foreground of
thought as quickly as a place was made for them. What had suddenly set
them into livelier motion she hardly knew, unless it were the strange
impression she had received in the afternoon of her husband's being in
more direct communication with Madame Merle than she suspected. That
impression came back to her from time to time, and now she wondered it
had never come before. Besides this, her short interview with Osmond
half an hour ago was a striking example of his faculty for making
everything wither that he touched, spoiling everything for her that he
looked at. It was very well to undertake to give him a proof of loyalty;
the real fact was that the knowledge of his expecting a thing raised a
presumption against it. It was as if he had had the evil eye; as if his
presence were a blight and his favour a misfortune. Was the fault in
himself, or only in the deep mistrust she had conceived for him? This
mistrust was now the clearest result of their short married life; a gulf
had opened between them over which they looked at each other with eyes
that were on either side a declaration of the deception suffered. It
was a strange opposition, of the like of which she had never dreamed--an
opposition in which the vital principle of the one was a thing of
contempt to the other. It was not her fault--she had practised no
deception; she had only admired and believed. She had taken all the
first steps in the purest confidence, and then she had suddenly found
the infinite vista of a multiplied life to be a dark, narrow alley
with a dead wall at the end. Instead of leading to the high places of
happiness, from which the world would seem to lie below one, so that one
could look down with a sense of exaltation and advantage, and judge and
choose and pity, it led rather downward and earthward, into realms of
restriction and depression where the sound of other lives, easier
and freer, was heard as from above, and where it served to deepen the
feeling of failure. It was her deep distrust of her husband--this was
what darkened the world. That is a sentiment easily indicated, but not
so easily explained, and so composite in its character that much time
and still more suffering had been needed to bring it to its actual
perfection. Suffering, with Isabel, was an active condition; it was
not a chill, a stupor, a despair; it was a passion of thought, of
speculation, of response to every pressure. She flattered herself
that she had kept her failing faith to herself, however,--that no one
suspected it but Osmond. Oh, he knew it, and there were times when she
thought he enjoyed it. It had come gradually--it was not till the first
year of their life together, so admirably intimate at first, had closed
that she had taken the alarm. Then the shadows had begun to gather; it
was as if Osmond deliberately, almost malignantly, had put the lights
out one by one. The dusk at first was vague and thin, and she could
still see her way in it. But it steadily deepened, and if now and again
it had occasionally lifted there were certain corners of her prospect
that were impenetrably black. These shadows were not an emanation from
her own mind: she was very sure of that; she had done her best to be
just and temperate, to see only the truth. They were a part, they were
a kind of creation and consequence, of her husband's very presence. They
were not his misdeeds, his turpitudes; she accused him of nothing--that
is but of one thing, which was NOT a crime. She knew of no wrong he had
done; he was not violent, he was not cruel: she simply believed he hated
her. That was all she accused him of, and the miserable part of it was
precisely that it was not a crime, for against a crime she might have
found redress. He had discovered that she was so different, that she was
not what he had believed she would prove to be. He had thought at first
he could change her, and she had done her best to be what he would like.
But she was, after all, herself--she couldn't help that; and now there
was no use pretending, wearing a mask or a dress, for he knew her and
had made up his mind. She was not afraid of him; she had no apprehension
he would hurt her; for the ill-will he bore her was not of that sort.
He would if possible never give her a pretext, never put himself in the
wrong. Isabel, scanning the future with dry, fixed eyes, saw that he
would have the better of her there. She would give him many pretexts,
she would often put herself in the wrong. There were times when she
almost pitied him; for if she had not deceived him in intention she
understood how completely she must have done so in fact. She had effaced
herself when he first knew her; she had made herself small, pretending
there was less of her than there really was. It was because she had been
under the extraordinary charm that he, on his side, had taken pains to
put forth. He was not changed; he had not disguised himself, during the
year of his courtship, any more than she. But she had seen only half his
nature then, as one saw the disk of the moon when it was partly masked
by the shadow of the earth. She saw the full moon now--she saw the
whole man. She had kept still, as it were, so that he should have a free
field, and yet in spite of this she had mistaken a part for the whole.
Ah, she had been immensely under the charm! It had not passed away; it
was there still: she still knew perfectly what it was that made Osmond
delightful when he chose to be. He had wished to be when he made love
to her, and as she had wished to be charmed it was not wonderful he
had succeeded. He had succeeded because he had been sincere; it never
occurred to her now to deny him that. He admired her--he had told her
why: because she was the most imaginative woman he had known. It might
very well have been true; for during those months she had imagined
a world of things that had no substance. She had had a more wondrous
vision of him, fed through charmed senses and oh such a stirred
fancy!--she had not read him right. A certain combination of features
had touched her, and in them she had seen the most striking of figures.
That he was poor and lonely and yet that somehow he was noble--that was
what had interested her and seemed to give her her opportunity. There
had been an indefinable beauty about him--in his situation, in his mind,
in his face. She had felt at the same time that he was helpless and
ineffectual, but the feeling had taken the form of a tenderness
which was the very flower of respect. He was like a sceptical voyager
strolling on the beach while he waited for the tide, looking seaward yet
not putting to sea. It was in all this she had found her occasion. She
would launch his boat for him; she would be his providence; it would be
a good thing to love him. And she had loved him, she had so anxiously
and yet so ardently given herself--a good deal for what she found in
him, but a good deal also for what she brought him and what might enrich
the gift. As she looked back at the passion of those full weeks she
perceived in it a kind of maternal strain--the happiness of a woman who
felt that she was a contributor, that she came with charged hands. But
for her money, as she saw to-day, she would never have done it. And then
her mind wandered off to poor Mr. Touchett, sleeping under English turf,
the beneficent author of infinite woe! For this was the fantastic fact.
At bottom her money had been a burden, had been on her mind, which
was filled with the desire to transfer the weight of it to some other
conscience, to some more prepared receptacle. What would lighten her
own conscience more effectually than to make it over to the man with the
best taste in the world? Unless she should have given it to a hospital
there would have been nothing better she could do with it; and there was
no charitable institution in which she had been as much interested as
in Gilbert Osmond. He would use her fortune in a way that would make her
think better of it and rub off a certain grossness attaching to the good
luck of an unexpected inheritance. There had been nothing very delicate
in inheriting seventy thousand pounds; the delicacy had been all in Mr.
Touchett's leaving them to her. But to marry Gilbert Osmond and bring
him such a portion--in that there would be delicacy for her as well.
There would be less for him--that was true; but that was his affair, and
if he loved her he wouldn't object to her being rich. Had he not had the
courage to say he was glad she was rich?
Isabel's cheek burned when she asked herself if she had really married
on a factitious theory, in order to do something finely appreciable with
her money. But she was able to answer quickly enough that this was
only half the story. It was because a certain ardour took possession of
her--a sense of the earnestness of his affection and a delight in
his personal qualities. He was better than any one else. This supreme
conviction had filled her life for months, and enough of it still
remained to prove to her that she could not have done otherwise. The
finest--in the sense of being the subtlest--manly organism she had ever
known had become her property, and the recognition of her having but
to put out her hands and take it had been originally a sort of act of
devotion. She had not been mistaken about the beauty of his mind; she
knew that organ perfectly now. She had lived with it, she had lived IN
it almost--it appeared to have become her habitation. If she had been
captured it had taken a firm hand to seize her; that reflection perhaps
had some worth. A mind more ingenious, more pliant, more cultivated,
more trained to admirable exercises, she had not encountered; and it was
this exquisite instrument she had now to reckon with. She lost herself
in infinite dismay when she thought of the magnitude of HIS deception.
It was a wonder, perhaps, in view of this, that he didn't hate her more.
She remembered perfectly the first sign he had given of it--it had been
like the bell that was to ring up the curtain upon the real drama of
their life. He said to her one day that she had too many ideas and that
she must get rid of them. He had told her that already, before their
marriage; but then she had not noticed it: it had come back to her only
afterwards. This time she might well have noticed it, because he had
really meant it. The words had been nothing superficially; but when in
the light of deepening experience she had looked into them they had then
appeared portentous. He had really meant it--he would have liked her to
have nothing of her own but her pretty appearance. She had known she had
too many ideas; she had more even than he had supposed, many more than
she had expressed to him when he had asked her to marry him. Yes, she
HAD been hypocritical; she had liked him so much. She had too many ideas
for herself; but that was just what one married for, to share them with
some one else. One couldn't pluck them up by the roots, though of course
one might suppress them, be careful not to utter them. It had not been
this, however, his objecting to her opinions; this had been nothing. She
had no opinions--none that she would not have been eager to sacrifice in
the satisfaction of feeling herself loved for it. What he had meant
had been the whole thing--her character, the way she felt, the way she
judged. This was what she had kept in reserve; this was what he had not
known until he had found himself--with the door closed behind, as it
were--set down face to face with it. She had a certain way of looking at
life which he took as a personal offence. Heaven knew that now at least
it was a very humble, accommodating way! The strange thing was that
she should not have suspected from the first that his own had been so
different. She had thought it so large, so enlightened, so perfectly
that of an honest man and a gentleman. Hadn't he assured her that he had
no superstitions, no dull limitations, no prejudices that had lost their
freshness? Hadn't he all the appearance of a man living in the open air
of the world, indifferent to small considerations, caring only for truth
and knowledge and believing that two intelligent people ought to look
for them together and, whether they found them or not, find at least
some happiness in the search? He had told her he loved the conventional;
but there was a sense in which this seemed a noble declaration. In that
sense, that of the love of harmony and order and decency and of all the
stately offices of life, she went with him freely, and his warning had
contained nothing ominous. But when, as the months had elapsed, she
had followed him further and he had led her into the mansion of his own
habitation, then, THEN she had seen where she really was.
She could live it over again, the incredulous terror with which she
had taken the measure of her dwelling. Between those four walls she had
lived ever since; they were to surround her for the rest of her life.
It was the house of darkness, the house of dumbness, the house of
suffocation. Osmond's beautiful mind gave it neither light nor air;
Osmond's beautiful mind indeed seemed to peep down from a small high
window and mock at her. Of course it had not been physical suffering;
for physical suffering there might have been a remedy. She could come
and go; she had her liberty; her husband was perfectly polite. He took
himself so seriously; it was something appalling. Under all his culture,
his cleverness, his amenity, under his good-nature, his facility, his
knowledge of life, his egotism lay hidden like a serpent in a bank
of flowers. She had taken him seriously, but she had not taken him so
seriously as that. How could she--especially when she had known him
better? She was to think of him as he thought of himself--as the first
gentleman in Europe. So it was that she had thought of him at first, and
that indeed was the reason she had married him. But when she began to
see what it implied she drew back; there was more in the bond than she
had meant to put her name to. It implied a sovereign contempt for every
one but some three or four very exalted people whom he envied, and for
everything in the world but half a dozen ideas of his own. That was very
well; she would have gone with him even there a long distance; for
he pointed out to her so much of the baseness and shabbiness of life,
opened her eyes so wide to the stupidity, the depravity, the ignorance
of mankind, that she had been properly impressed with the infinite
vulgarity of things and of the virtue of keeping one's self unspotted by
it. But this base, if noble world, it appeared, was after all what one
was to live for; one was to keep it forever in one's eye, in order
not to enlighten or convert or redeem it, but to extract from it some
recognition of one's own superiority. On the one hand it was despicable,
but on the other it afforded a standard. Osmond had talked to Isabel
about his renunciation, his indifference, the ease with which he
dispensed with the usual aids to success; and all this had seemed to
her admirable. She had thought it a grand indifference, an exquisite
independence. But indifference was really the last of his qualities;
she had never seen any one who thought so much of others. For herself,
avowedly, the world had always interested her and the study of her
fellow creatures been her constant passion. She would have been willing,
however, to renounce all her curiosities and sympathies for the sake of
a personal life, if the person concerned had only been able to make her
believe it was a gain! This at least was her present conviction; and
the thing certainly would have been easier than to care for society as
Osmond cared for it.
He was unable to live without it, and she saw that he had never really
done so; he had looked at it out of his window even when he appeared
to be most detached from it. He had his ideal, just as she had tried to
have hers; only it was strange that people should seek for justice in
such different quarters. His ideal was a conception of high prosperity
and propriety, of the aristocratic life, which she now saw that he
deemed himself always, in essence at least, to have led. He had never
lapsed from it for an hour; he would never have recovered from the shame
of doing so. That again was very well; here too she would have agreed;
but they attached such different ideas, such different associations and
desires, to the same formulas. Her notion of the aristocratic life was
simply the union of great knowledge with great liberty; the knowledge
would give one a sense of duty and the liberty a sense of enjoyment. But
for Osmond it was altogether a thing of forms, a conscious, calculated
attitude. He was fond of the old, the consecrated, the transmitted;
so was she, but she pretended to do what she chose with it. He had an
immense esteem for tradition; he had told her once that the best thing
in the world was to have it, but that if one was so unfortunate as not
to have it one must immediately proceed to make it. She knew that he
meant by this that she hadn't it, but that he was better off; though
from what source he had derived his traditions she never learned. He
had a very large collection of them, however; that was very certain,
and after a little she began to see. The great thing was to act in
accordance with them; the great thing not only for him but for her.
Isabel had an undefined conviction that to serve for another person than
their proprietor traditions must be of a thoroughly superior kind; but
she nevertheless assented to this intimation that she too must march
to the stately music that floated down from unknown periods in her
husband's past; she who of old had been so free of step, so desultory,
so devious, so much the reverse of processional. There were certain
things they must do, a certain posture they must take, certain people
they must know and not know. When she saw this rigid system close about
her, draped though it was in pictured tapestries, that sense of darkness
and suffocation of which I have spoken took possession of her; she
seemed shut up with an odour of mould and decay. She had resisted of
course; at first very humorously, ironically, tenderly; then, as the
situation grew more serious, eagerly, passionately, pleadingly. She had
pleaded the cause of freedom, of doing as they chose, of not caring for
the aspect and denomination of their life--the cause of other instincts
and longings, of quite another ideal.
Then it was that her husband's personality, touched as it never had
been, stepped forth and stood erect. The things she had said were
answered only by his scorn, and she could see he was ineffably ashamed
of her. What did he think of her--that she was base, vulgar, ignoble?
He at least knew now that she had no traditions! It had not been in his
prevision of things that she should reveal such flatness; her sentiments
were worthy of a radical newspaper or a Unitarian preacher. The real
offence, as she ultimately perceived, was her having a mind of her
own at all. Her mind was to be his--attached to his own like a small
garden-plot to a deer-park. He would rake the soil gently and water the
flowers; he would weed the beds and gather an occasional nosegay.
It would be a pretty piece of property for a proprietor already
far-reaching. He didn't wish her to be stupid. On the contrary, it was
because she was clever that she had pleased him. But he expected her
intelligence to operate altogether in his favour, and so far from
desiring her mind to be a blank he had flattered himself that it would
be richly receptive. He had expected his wife to feel with him and for
him, to enter into his opinions, his ambitions, his preferences; and
Isabel was obliged to confess that this was no great insolence on the
part of a man so accomplished and a husband originally at least so
tender. But there were certain things she could never take in. To
begin with, they were hideously unclean. She was not a daughter of the
Puritans, but for all that she believed in such a thing as chastity and
even as decency. It would appear that Osmond was far from doing anything
of the sort; some of his traditions made her push back her skirts. Did
all women have lovers? Did they all lie and even the best have their
price? Were there only three or four that didn't deceive their husbands?
When Isabel heard such things she felt a greater scorn for them than for
the gossip of a village parlour--a scorn that kept its freshness in
a very tainted air. There was the taint of her sister-in-law: did her
husband judge only by the Countess Gemini? This lady very often lied,
and she had practised deceptions that were not simply verbal. It was
enough to find these facts assumed among Osmond's traditions--it was
enough without giving them such a general extension. It was her scorn
of his assumptions, it was this that made him draw himself up. He
had plenty of contempt, and it was proper his wife should be as well
furnished; but that she should turn the hot light of her disdain upon
his own conception of things--this was a danger he had not allowed for.
He believed he should have regulated her emotions before she came to
it; and Isabel could easily imagine how his ears had scorched on his
discovering he had been too confident. When one had a wife who gave one
that sensation there was nothing left but to hate her.
She was morally certain now that this feeling of hatred, which at first
had been a refuge and a refreshment, had become the occupation and
comfort of his life. The feeling was deep, because it was sincere; he
had had the revelation that she could after all dispense with him. If
to herself the idea was startling, if it presented itself at first as a
kind of infidelity, a capacity for pollution, what infinite effect might
it not be expected to have had upon HIM? It was very simple; he
despised her; she had no traditions and the moral horizon of a
Unitarian minister. Poor Isabel, who had never been able to understand
Unitarianism! This was the certitude she had been living with now for
a time that she had ceased to measure. What was coming--what was before
them? That was her constant question. What would he do--what ought SHE
to do? When a man hated his wife what did it lead to? She didn't hate
him, that she was sure of, for every little while she felt a passionate
wish to give him a pleasant surprise. Very often, however, she felt
afraid, and it used to come over her, as I have intimated, that she
had deceived him at the very first. They were strangely married, at all
events, and it was a horrible life. Until that morning he had scarcely
spoken to her for a week; his manner was as dry as a burned-out
fire. She knew there was a special reason; he was displeased at Ralph
Touchett's staying on in Rome. He thought she saw too much of her
cousin--he had told her a week before it was indecent she should go to
him at his hotel. He would have said more than this if Ralph's invalid
state had not appeared to make it brutal to denounce him; but having had
to contain himself had only deepened his disgust. Isabel read all this
as she would have read the hour on the clock-face; she was as perfectly
aware that the sight of her interest in her cousin stirred her husband's
rage as if Osmond had locked her into her room--which she was sure was
what he wanted to do. It was her honest belief that on the whole she
was not defiant, but she certainly couldn't pretend to be indifferent to
Ralph. She believed he was dying at last and that she should never see
him again, and this gave her a tenderness for him that she had never
known before. Nothing was a pleasure to her now; how could anything be
a pleasure to a woman who knew that she had thrown away her life? There
was an everlasting weight on her heart--there was a livid light on
everything. But Ralph's little visit was a lamp in the darkness; for the
hour that she sat with him her ache for herself became somehow her ache
for HIM. She felt to-day as if he had been her brother. She had never
had a brother, but if she had and she were in trouble and he were dying,
he would be dear to her as Ralph was. Ah yes, if Gilbert was jealous of
her there was perhaps some reason; it didn't make Gilbert look better to
sit for half an hour with Ralph. It was not that they talked of him--it
was not that she complained. His name was never uttered between them. It
was simply that Ralph was generous and that her husband was not. There
was something in Ralph's talk, in his smile, in the mere fact of his
being in Rome, that made the blasted circle round which she walked more
spacious. He made her feel the good of the world; he made her feel what
might have been. He was after all as intelligent as Osmond--quite apart
from his being better. And thus it seemed to her an act of devotion
to conceal her misery from him. She concealed it elaborately; she
was perpetually, in their talk, hanging out curtains and before her
again--it lived before her again,--it had never had time to die--that
morning in the garden at Florence when he had warned her against Osmond.
She had only to close her eyes to see the place, to hear his voice, to
feel the warm, sweet air. How could he have known? What a mystery,
what a wonder of wisdom! As intelligent as Gilbert? He was much more
intelligent--to arrive at such a judgement as that. Gilbert had never
been so deep, so just. She had told him then that from her at least he
should never know if he was right; and this was what she was taking
care of now. It gave her plenty to do; there was passion, exaltation,
religion in it. Women find their religion sometimes in strange
exercises, and Isabel at present, in playing a part before her cousin,
had an idea that she was doing him a kindness. It would have been a
kindness perhaps if he had been for a single instant a dupe. As it was,
the kindness consisted mainly in trying to make him believe that he had
once wounded her greatly and that the event had put him to shame, but
that, as she was very generous and he was so ill, she bore him no grudge
and even considerately forbore to flaunt her happiness in his face.
Ralph smiled to himself, as he lay on his sofa, at this extraordinary
form of consideration; but he forgave her for having forgiven him. She
didn't wish him to have the pain of knowing she was unhappy: that was
the great thing, and it didn't matter that such knowledge would rather
have righted him.
For herself, she lingered in the soundless saloon long after the fire
had gone out. There was no danger of her feeling the cold; she was in
a fever. She heard the small hours strike, and then the great ones, but
her vigil took no heed of time. Her mind, assailed by visions, was in a
state of extraordinary activity, and her visions might as well come to
her there, where she sat up to meet them, as on her pillow, to make a
mockery of rest. As I have said, she believed she was not defiant, and
what could be a better proof of it than that she should linger there
half the night, trying to persuade herself that there was no reason why
Pansy shouldn't be married as you would put a letter in the post-office?
When the clock struck four she got up; she was going to bed at last, for
the lamp had long since gone out and the candles burned down to their
sockets. But even then she stopped again in the middle of the room
and stood there gazing at a remembered vision--that of her husband and
Madame Merle unconsciously and familiarly associated.
| The situation between Lord Warburton and Pansy presents us with an interesting situation that allows Isabel to think about the right motivations behind an action. If Lord Warburton is marrying Pansy in order to please Isabel, she sees that it would be wrong of her to take advantage of this. Yet Isabel realizes that this is exactly what Madame Merle and Osmond expect of her: they expect her to have no qualms about using another person for one's own ends. This makes her reflect on the moral character of the people around her. As Robert Pippin has pointed out , the modern situation that Henry James was facing during his time introduced the possibility that psychological motivations made an action moral or immoral. For example, if Osmond had married Isabel just for his own self-interest and to increase his fortune, it would be immoral. But Isabel had married Osmond because she had wanted to give him the means to further express himself, and this is considered moral. However, the problem being presented in the novel is that psychological motivations only crystallize as such later on in life. It is important to note the technique that James employs to enter into Isabel's mind. He first of all has set up the scene so that we have only gradually approached Isabel's true state of mind through the speculations of others. We first get Edward Rosier's speculations of Isabel, then Lord Warburton's, then Ralph's, until we finally approach Isabel's own. It is like peeling the layers off of an onion until we reach the core of Isabel's thought. Furthermore, there is an indication that Isabel's own thoughts are very much infected and inflected through her understanding of the thoughts of others. Sharon Cameron has called this the 'intersubjectivity' of the novel: the belief that one's mind is not entirely one's own, but rather a consciousness crystallizes as such only once one knows what others are thinking. Finally, Chapter 42 provides us with insight into James' views on the conventional Old World. Osmond is representative of empty traditions without any intrinsic meaning. He follows them simply to show his own aristocratic value. At best, this Old World is capable of showing itself off through aesthetics -- knowledge about classical art, for example, would let one show off how cultured one is. However, James is questioning whether or not this aristocratic, European view of the world would not benefit from the freshness of an American, moral perspective. Isabel is representative of the New World, and the insights that an open mind can provide to a European outlook. She wants to always look at things for herself, bring her own original perspective, and question the meaning of traditions. Yet it is problematic that she has only two means of expressing herself: money and marriage. There seems also to be a feminist point being made here, especially in Isabel's envy of Lord Warburton. Women did not have enough avenues open to them during this time period for expression of their character, and James seems to be suggesting that they would have something very valuable to add to society if more pathways were open to them to do so. | analysis |
Three nights after this she took Pansy to a great party, to which
Osmond, who never went to dances, did not accompany them. Pansy was as
ready for a dance as ever; she was not of a generalising turn and had
not extended to other pleasures the interdict she had seen placed on
those of love. If she was biding her time or hoping to circumvent her
father she must have had a prevision of success. Isabel thought this
unlikely; it was much more likely that Pansy had simply determined to
be a good girl. She had never had such a chance, and she had a proper
esteem for chances. She carried herself no less attentively than usual
and kept no less anxious an eye upon her vaporous skirts; she held her
bouquet very tight and counted over the flowers for the twentieth time.
She made Isabel feel old; it seemed so long since she had been in a
flutter about a ball. Pansy, who was greatly admired, was never in want
of partners, and very soon after their arrival she gave Isabel, who was
not dancing, her bouquet to hold. Isabel had rendered her this service
for some minutes when she became aware of the near presence of Edward
Rosier. He stood before her; he had lost his affable smile and wore a
look of almost military resolution. The change in his appearance would
have made Isabel smile if she had not felt his case to be at bottom
a hard one: he had always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of
gunpowder. He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if to notify
her he was dangerous, and then dropped his eyes on her bouquet. After
he had inspected it his glance softened and he said quickly: "It's all
pansies; it must be hers!"
Isabel smiled kindly. "Yes, it's hers; she gave it to me to hold."
"May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?" the poor young man asked.
"No, I can't trust you; I'm afraid you wouldn't give it back."
"I'm not sure that I should; I should leave the house with it instantly.
But may I not at least have a single flower?"
Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out the
bouquet. "Choose one yourself. It's frightful what I'm doing for you."
"Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!" Rosier exclaimed with
his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower.
"Don't put it into your button-hole," she said. "Don't for the world!"
"I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with me, but I
wish to show her that I believe in her still."
"It's very well to show it to her, but it's out of place to show it to
others. Her father has told her not to dance with you."
"And is that all YOU can do for me? I expected more from you, Mrs.
Osmond," said the young man in a tone of fine general reference. "You
know our acquaintance goes back very far--quite into the days of our
innocent childhood."
"Don't make me out too old," Isabel patiently answered. "You come back
to that very often, and I've never denied it. But I must tell you that,
old friends as we are, if you had done me the honour to ask me to marry
you I should have refused you on the spot."
"Ah, you don't esteem me then. Say at once that you think me a mere
Parisian trifler!"
"I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you. What I mean by
that, of course, is that I'm not in love with you for Pansy."
"Very good; I see. You pity me--that's all." And Edward Rosier looked
all round, inconsequently, with his single glass. It was a revelation to
him that people shouldn't be more pleased; but he was at least too proud
to show that the deficiency struck him as general.
Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appearance had not the
dignity of the deepest tragedy; his little glass, among other things,
was against that. But she suddenly felt touched; her own unhappiness,
after all, had something in common with his, and it came over her, more
than before, that here, in recognisable, if not in romantic form,
was the most affecting thing in the world--young love struggling with
adversity. "Would you really be very kind to her?" she finally asked in
a low tone.
He dropped his eyes devoutly and raised the little flower that he held
in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. "You pity me; but
don't you pity HER a little?"
"I don't know; I'm not sure. She'll always enjoy life."
"It will depend on what you call life!" Mr. Rosier effectively said.
"She won't enjoy being tortured."
"There'll be nothing of that."
"I'm glad to hear it. She knows what she's about. You'll see."
"I think she does, and she'll never disobey her father. But she's coming
back to me," Isabel added, "and I must beg you to go away."
Rosier lingered a moment till Pansy came in sight on the arm of her
cavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in the face. Then he
walked away, holding up his head; and the manner in which he achieved
this sacrifice to expediency convinced Isabel he was very much in love.
Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, looking perfectly fresh
and cool after this exercise, waited a moment and then took back her
bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw she was counting the flowers;
whereupon she said to herself that decidedly there were deeper forces at
play than she had recognised. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she
said nothing to Isabel about him; she talked only of her partner, after
he had made his bow and retired; of the music, the floor, the rare
misfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel was sure, however,
she had discovered her lover to have abstracted a flower; though this
knowledge was not needed to account for the dutiful grace with which she
responded to the appeal of her next partner. That perfect amenity under
acute constraint was part of a larger system. She was again led forth
by a flushed young man, this time carrying her bouquet; and she had
not been absent many minutes when Isabel saw Lord Warburton advancing
through the crowd. He presently drew near and bade her good-evening;
she had not seen him since the day before. He looked about him, and then
"Where's the little maid?" he asked. It was in this manner that he had
formed the harmless habit of alluding to Miss Osmond.
"She's dancing," said Isabel. "You'll see her somewhere."
He looked among the dancers and at last caught Pansy's eye. "She sees
me, but she won't notice me," he then remarked. "Are you not dancing?"
"As you see, I'm a wall-flower."
"Won't you dance with me?"
"Thank you; I'd rather you should dance with the little maid."
"One needn't prevent the other--especially as she's engaged."
"She's not engaged for everything, and you can reserve yourself. She
dances very hard, and you'll be the fresher."
"She dances beautifully," said Lord Warburton, following her with his
eyes. "Ah, at last," he added, "she has given me a smile." He stood
there with his handsome, easy, important physiognomy; and as Isabel
observed him it came over her, as it had done before, that it was
strange a man of his mettle should take an interest in a little maid. It
struck her as a great incongruity; neither Pansy's small fascinations,
nor his own kindness, his good-nature, not even his need for amusement,
which was extreme and constant, were sufficient to account for it. "I
should like to dance with you," he went on in a moment, turning back to
Isabel; "but I think I like even better to talk with you."
"Yes, it's better, and it's more worthy of your dignity. Great statesmen
oughtn't to waltz."
"Don't be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dance with Miss
Osmond?"
"Ah, that's different. If you danced with her it would look simply like
a piece of kindness--as if you were doing it for her amusement. If you
dance with me you'll look as if you were doing it for your own."
"And pray haven't I a right to amuse myself?"
"No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your hands."
"The British Empire be hanged! You're always laughing at it."
"Amuse yourself with talking to me," said Isabel.
"I'm not sure it's really a recreation. You're too pointed; I've always
to be defending myself. And you strike me as more than usually dangerous
to-night. Will you absolutely not dance?"
"I can't leave my place. Pansy must find me here."
He was silent a little. "You're wonderfully good to her," he said
suddenly.
Isabel stared a little and smiled. "Can you imagine one's not being?"
"No indeed. I know how one is charmed with her. But you must have done a
great deal for her."
"I've taken her out with me," said Isabel, smiling still. "And I've seen
that she has proper clothes."
"Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You've talked to
her, advised her, helped her to develop."
"Ah yes, if she isn't the rose she has lived near it."
She laughed, and her companion did as much; but there was a certain
visible preoccupation in his face which interfered with complete
hilarity. "We all try to live as near it as we can," he said after a
moment's hesitation.
Isabel turned away; Pansy was about to be restored to her, and she
welcomed the diversion. We know how much she liked Lord Warburton; she
thought him pleasanter even than the sum of his merits warranted; there
was something in his friendship that appeared a kind of resource in case
of indefinite need; it was like having a large balance at the bank. She
felt happier when he was in the room; there was something reassuring in
his approach; the sound of his voice reminded her of the beneficence of
nature. Yet for all that it didn't suit her that he should be too near
her, that he should take too much of her good-will for granted. She was
afraid of that; she averted herself from it; she wished he wouldn't. She
felt that if he should come too near, as it were, it might be in her to
flash out and bid him keep his distance. Pansy came back to Isabel with
another rent in her skirt, which was the inevitable consequence of the
first and which she displayed to Isabel with serious eyes. There were
too many gentlemen in uniform; they wore those dreadful spurs, which
were fatal to the dresses of little maids. It hereupon became apparent
that the resources of women are innumerable. Isabel devoted herself
to Pansy's desecrated drapery; she fumbled for a pin and repaired the
injury; she smiled and listened to her account of her adventures. Her
attention, her sympathy were immediate and active; and they were
in direct proportion to a sentiment with which they were in no way
connected--a lively conjecture as to whether Lord Warburton might be
trying to make love to her. It was not simply his words just then; it
was others as well; it was the reference and the continuity. This was
what she thought about while she pinned up Pansy's dress. If it were
so, as she feared, he was of course unwitting; he himself had not taken
account of his intention. But this made it none the more auspicious,
made the situation none less impossible. The sooner he should get back
into right relations with things the better. He immediately began
to talk to Pansy--on whom it was certainly mystifying to see that he
dropped a smile of chastened devotion. Pansy replied, as usual, with a
little air of conscientious aspiration; he had to bend toward her a good
deal in conversation, and her eyes, as usual, wandered up and down his
robust person as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She always
seemed a little frightened; yet her fright was not of the painful
character that suggests dislike; on the contrary, she looked as if she
knew that he knew she liked him. Isabel left them together a little and
wandered toward a friend whom she saw near and with whom she talked till
the music of the following dance began, for which she knew Pansy to be
also engaged. The girl joined her presently, with a little fluttered
flush, and Isabel, who scrupulously took Osmond's view of his daughter's
complete dependence, consigned her, as a precious and momentary loan,
to her appointed partner. About all this matter she had her own
imaginations, her own reserves; there were moments when Pansy's extreme
adhesiveness made each of them, to her sense, look foolish. But Osmond
had given her a sort of tableau of her position as his daughter's
duenna, which consisted of gracious alternations of concession and
contraction; and there were directions of his which she liked to think
she obeyed to the letter. Perhaps, as regards some of them, it was
because her doing so appeared to reduce them to the absurd.
After Pansy had been led away, she found Lord Warburton drawing near her
again. She rested her eyes on him steadily; she wished she could sound
his thoughts. But he had no appearance of confusion. "She has promised
to dance with me later," he said.
"I'm glad of that. I suppose you've engaged her for the cotillion."
At this he looked a little awkward. "No, I didn't ask her for that. It's
a quadrille."
"Ah, you're not clever!" said Isabel almost angrily. "I told her to keep
the cotillion in case you should ask for it."
"Poor little maid, fancy that!" And Lord Warburton laughed frankly. "Of
course I will if you like."
"If I like? Oh, if you dance with her only because I like it--!"
"I'm afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young fellows on her
book."
Isabel dropped her eyes, reflecting rapidly; Lord Warburton stood there
looking at her and she felt his eyes on her face. She felt much inclined
to ask him to remove them. She didn't do so, however; she only said to
him, after a minute, with her own raised: "Please let me understand."
"Understand what?"
"You told me ten days ago that you'd like to marry my stepdaughter.
You've not forgotten it!"
"Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning."
"Ah," said Isabel, "he didn't mention to me that he had heard from you."
Lord Warburton stammered a little. "I--I didn't send my letter."
"Perhaps you forgot THAT."
"No, I wasn't satisfied with it. It's an awkward sort of letter to
write, you know. But I shall send it to-night."
"At three o'clock in the morning?"
"I mean later, in the course of the day."
"Very good. You still wish then to marry her?"
"Very much indeed."
"Aren't you afraid that you'll bore her?" And as her companion stared at
this enquiry Isabel added: "If she can't dance with you for half an hour
how will she be able to dance with you for life?"
"Ah," said Lord Warburton readily, "I'll let her dance with other
people! About the cotillion, the fact is I thought that you--that you--"
"That I would do it with you? I told you I'd do nothing."
"Exactly; so that while it's going on I might find some quiet corner
where we may sit down and talk."
"Oh," said Isabel gravely, "you're much too considerate of me."
When the cotillion came Pansy was found to have engaged herself,
thinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton had no intentions.
Isabel recommended him to seek another partner, but he assured her that
he would dance with no one but herself. As, however, she had, in spite
of the remonstrances of her hostess, declined other invitations on the
ground that she was not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to
make an exception in Lord Warburton's favour.
"After all I don't care to dance," he said; "it's a barbarous amusement:
I'd much rather talk." And he intimated that he had discovered exactly
the corner he had been looking for--a quiet nook in one of the smaller
rooms, where the music would come to them faintly and not interfere
with conversation. Isabel had decided to let him carry out his idea; she
wished to be satisfied. She wandered away from the ball-room with him,
though she knew her husband desired she should not lose sight of his
daughter. It was with his daughter's pretendant, however; that would
make it right for Osmond. On her way out of the ball-room she came upon
Edward Rosier, who was standing in a doorway, with folded arms, looking
at the dance in the attitude of a young man without illusions. She
stopped a moment and asked him if he were not dancing.
"Certainly not, if I can't dance with HER!" he answered.
"You had better go away then," said Isabel with the manner of good
counsel.
"I shall not go till she does!" And he let Lord Warburton pass without
giving him a look.
This nobleman, however, had noticed the melancholy youth, and he
asked Isabel who her dismal friend was, remarking that he had seen him
somewhere before.
"It's the young man I've told you about, who's in love with Pansy."
"Ah yes, I remember. He looks rather bad."
"He has reason. My husband won't listen to him."
"What's the matter with him?" Lord Warburton enquired. "He seems very
harmless."
"He hasn't money enough, and he isn't very clever."
Lord Warburton listened with interest; he seemed struck with this
account of Edward Rosier. "Dear me; he looked a well-set-up young
fellow."
"So he is, but my husband's very particular."
"Oh, I see." And Lord Warburton paused a moment. "How much money has he
got?" he then ventured to ask.
"Some forty thousand francs a year."
"Sixteen hundred pounds? Ah, but that's very good, you know."
"So I think. My husband, however, has larger ideas."
"Yes; I've noticed that your husband has very large ideas. Is he really
an idiot, the young man?"
"An idiot? Not in the least; he's charming. When he was twelve years old
I myself was in love with him."
"He doesn't look much more than twelve to-day," Lord Warburton rejoined
vaguely, looking about him. Then with more point, "Don't you think we
might sit here?" he asked.
"Wherever you please." The room was a sort of boudoir, pervaded by a
subdued, rose-coloured light; a lady and gentleman moved out of it as
our friends came in. "It's very kind of you to take such an interest in
Mr. Rosier," Isabel said.
"He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard long. I
wondered what ailed him."
"You're a just man," said Isabel. "You've a kind thought even for a
rival."
Lord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare. "A rival! Do you call him
my rival?"
"Surely--if you both wish to marry the same person."
"Yes--but since he has no chance!"
"I like you, however that may be, for putting your self in his place. It
shows imagination."
"You like me for it?" And Lord Warburton looked at her with an uncertain
eye. "I think you mean you're laughing at me for it."
"Yes, I'm laughing at you a little. But I like you as somebody to laugh
at."
"Ah well, then, let me enter into his situation a little more. What do
you suppose one could do for him?"
"Since I have been praising your imagination I'll leave you to imagine
that yourself," Isabel said. "Pansy too would like you for that."
"Miss Osmond? Ah, she, I flatter myself, likes me already."
"Very much, I think."
He waited a little; he was still questioning her face. "Well then, I
don't understand you. You don't mean that she cares for him?"
A quick blush sprang to his brow. "You told me she would have no wish
apart from her father's, and as I've gathered that he would favour
me--!" He paused a little and then suggested "Don't you see?" through
his blush.
"Yes, I told you she has an immense wish to please her father, and that
it would probably take her very far."
"That seems to me a very proper feeling," said Lord Warburton.
"Certainly; it's a very proper feeling." Isabel remained silent for some
moments; the room continued empty; the sound of the music reached them
with its richness softened by the interposing apartments. Then at last
she said: "But it hardly strikes me as the sort of feeling to which a
man would wish to be indebted for a wife."
"I don't know; if the wife's a good one and he thinks she does well!"
"Yes, of course you must think that."
"I do; I can't help it. You call that very British, of course."
"No, I don't. I think Pansy would do wonderfully well to marry you,
and I don't know who should know it better than you. But you're not in
love."
"Ah, yes I am, Mrs. Osmond!"
Isabel shook her head. "You like to think you are while you sit here
with me. But that's not how you strike me."
"I'm not like the young man in the doorway. I admit that. But what makes
it so unnatural? Could any one in the world be more loveable than Miss
Osmond?"
"No one, possibly. But love has nothing to do with good reasons."
"I don't agree with you. I'm delighted to have good reasons."
"Of course you are. If you were really in love you wouldn't care a straw
for them."
"Ah, really in love--really in love!" Lord Warburton exclaimed, folding
his arms, leaning back his head and stretching himself a little. "You
must remember that I'm forty-two years old. I won't pretend I'm as I
once was."
"Well, if you're sure," said Isabel, "it's all right."
He answered nothing; he sat there, with his head back, looking before
him. Abruptly, however, he changed his position; he turned quickly to
his friend. "Why are you so unwilling, so sceptical?" She met his eyes,
and for a moment they looked straight at each other. If she wished to
be satisfied she saw something that satisfied her; she saw in his
expression the gleam of an idea that she was uneasy on her own
account--that she was perhaps even in fear. It showed a suspicion, not a
hope, but such as it was it told her what she wanted to know. Not for an
instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal of marrying
her step-daughter an implication of increased nearness to herself, or
of thinking it, on such a betrayal, ominous. In that brief, extremely
personal gaze, however, deeper meanings passed between them than they
were conscious of at the moment.
"My dear Lord Warburton," she said, smiling, "you may do, so far as I'm
concerned, whatever comes into your head."
And with this she got up and wandered into the adjoining room, where,
within her companion's view, she was immediately addressed by a pair of
gentlemen, high personages in the Roman world, who met her as if they
had been looking for her. While she talked with them she found herself
regretting she had moved; it looked a little like running away--all the
more as Lord Warburton didn't follow her. She was glad of this, however,
and at any rate she was satisfied. She was so well satisfied that
when, in passing back into the ball-room, she found Edward Rosier still
planted in the doorway, she stopped and spoke to him again. "You did
right not to go away. I've some comfort for you."
"I need it," the young man softly wailed, "when I see you so awfully
thick with him!"
"Don't speak of him; I'll do what I can for you. I'm afraid it won't be
much, but what I can I'll do."
He looked at her with gloomy obliqueness. "What has suddenly brought you
round?"
"The sense that you are an inconvenience in doorways!" she answered,
smiling as she passed him. Half an hour later she took leave, with
Pansy, and at the foot of the staircase the two ladies, with many
other departing guests, waited a while for their carriage. Just as it
approached Lord Warburton came out of the house and assisted them to
reach their vehicle. He stood a moment at the door, asking Pansy if
she had amused herself; and she, having answered him, fell back with a
little air of fatigue. Then Isabel, at the window, detaining him by
a movement of her finger, murmured gently: "Don't forget to send your
letter to her father!"
| Isabel takes Pansy to a dance, where she has been instructed by Osmond to keep watch over his daughter. While Pansy is dancing, Edward Rosier approaches Isabel in a determined manner. We learn that Pansy has refused to dance with him. He sees a bouquet of pansies that Isabel is holding, and realizing that it must belong to Pansy, he begs for one of the flowers. Pansy finishes a dance and is returning to Isabel, and Isabel bids Edward to leave. Upon her return, Pansy counts the flowers. Lord Warburton then approaches Isabel. Warburton has not yet asked Pansy to dance, because she is occupied with others. He then asks Isabel to dance, and she refuses. He says he prefers to talk to her anyway. Apparently Lord Warburton has written to Isabel telling her of his intention to offer marriage to Pansy, but he has not written to Osmond. The two then bump into Edward Rosier, who looks miserable. Lord Warburton notes how miserable he looks and asks Isabel why. Isabel tells him of Rosier's love for Pansy, and Warburton pities the man. Isabel notices that Warburton is not at all envious, and thinks that he is not in love with Pansy. Lord Warburton claims he has good reasons to love Pansy, and Isabel retorts that one never has good reasons to be in love. He wonders why Isabel is so skeptical of his intentions towards Pansy. The two exchange a look. Deeper meanings are exchanged between them than they are conscious of. Not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal of marrying her stepdaughter an implication of increased nearness to herself, or of thinking it, on such a betrayal, ominous," the narrator tells us | summary |
Three nights after this she took Pansy to a great party, to which
Osmond, who never went to dances, did not accompany them. Pansy was as
ready for a dance as ever; she was not of a generalising turn and had
not extended to other pleasures the interdict she had seen placed on
those of love. If she was biding her time or hoping to circumvent her
father she must have had a prevision of success. Isabel thought this
unlikely; it was much more likely that Pansy had simply determined to
be a good girl. She had never had such a chance, and she had a proper
esteem for chances. She carried herself no less attentively than usual
and kept no less anxious an eye upon her vaporous skirts; she held her
bouquet very tight and counted over the flowers for the twentieth time.
She made Isabel feel old; it seemed so long since she had been in a
flutter about a ball. Pansy, who was greatly admired, was never in want
of partners, and very soon after their arrival she gave Isabel, who was
not dancing, her bouquet to hold. Isabel had rendered her this service
for some minutes when she became aware of the near presence of Edward
Rosier. He stood before her; he had lost his affable smile and wore a
look of almost military resolution. The change in his appearance would
have made Isabel smile if she had not felt his case to be at bottom
a hard one: he had always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of
gunpowder. He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if to notify
her he was dangerous, and then dropped his eyes on her bouquet. After
he had inspected it his glance softened and he said quickly: "It's all
pansies; it must be hers!"
Isabel smiled kindly. "Yes, it's hers; she gave it to me to hold."
"May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?" the poor young man asked.
"No, I can't trust you; I'm afraid you wouldn't give it back."
"I'm not sure that I should; I should leave the house with it instantly.
But may I not at least have a single flower?"
Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out the
bouquet. "Choose one yourself. It's frightful what I'm doing for you."
"Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!" Rosier exclaimed with
his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower.
"Don't put it into your button-hole," she said. "Don't for the world!"
"I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with me, but I
wish to show her that I believe in her still."
"It's very well to show it to her, but it's out of place to show it to
others. Her father has told her not to dance with you."
"And is that all YOU can do for me? I expected more from you, Mrs.
Osmond," said the young man in a tone of fine general reference. "You
know our acquaintance goes back very far--quite into the days of our
innocent childhood."
"Don't make me out too old," Isabel patiently answered. "You come back
to that very often, and I've never denied it. But I must tell you that,
old friends as we are, if you had done me the honour to ask me to marry
you I should have refused you on the spot."
"Ah, you don't esteem me then. Say at once that you think me a mere
Parisian trifler!"
"I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you. What I mean by
that, of course, is that I'm not in love with you for Pansy."
"Very good; I see. You pity me--that's all." And Edward Rosier looked
all round, inconsequently, with his single glass. It was a revelation to
him that people shouldn't be more pleased; but he was at least too proud
to show that the deficiency struck him as general.
Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appearance had not the
dignity of the deepest tragedy; his little glass, among other things,
was against that. But she suddenly felt touched; her own unhappiness,
after all, had something in common with his, and it came over her, more
than before, that here, in recognisable, if not in romantic form,
was the most affecting thing in the world--young love struggling with
adversity. "Would you really be very kind to her?" she finally asked in
a low tone.
He dropped his eyes devoutly and raised the little flower that he held
in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. "You pity me; but
don't you pity HER a little?"
"I don't know; I'm not sure. She'll always enjoy life."
"It will depend on what you call life!" Mr. Rosier effectively said.
"She won't enjoy being tortured."
"There'll be nothing of that."
"I'm glad to hear it. She knows what she's about. You'll see."
"I think she does, and she'll never disobey her father. But she's coming
back to me," Isabel added, "and I must beg you to go away."
Rosier lingered a moment till Pansy came in sight on the arm of her
cavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in the face. Then he
walked away, holding up his head; and the manner in which he achieved
this sacrifice to expediency convinced Isabel he was very much in love.
Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, looking perfectly fresh
and cool after this exercise, waited a moment and then took back her
bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw she was counting the flowers;
whereupon she said to herself that decidedly there were deeper forces at
play than she had recognised. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she
said nothing to Isabel about him; she talked only of her partner, after
he had made his bow and retired; of the music, the floor, the rare
misfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel was sure, however,
she had discovered her lover to have abstracted a flower; though this
knowledge was not needed to account for the dutiful grace with which she
responded to the appeal of her next partner. That perfect amenity under
acute constraint was part of a larger system. She was again led forth
by a flushed young man, this time carrying her bouquet; and she had
not been absent many minutes when Isabel saw Lord Warburton advancing
through the crowd. He presently drew near and bade her good-evening;
she had not seen him since the day before. He looked about him, and then
"Where's the little maid?" he asked. It was in this manner that he had
formed the harmless habit of alluding to Miss Osmond.
"She's dancing," said Isabel. "You'll see her somewhere."
He looked among the dancers and at last caught Pansy's eye. "She sees
me, but she won't notice me," he then remarked. "Are you not dancing?"
"As you see, I'm a wall-flower."
"Won't you dance with me?"
"Thank you; I'd rather you should dance with the little maid."
"One needn't prevent the other--especially as she's engaged."
"She's not engaged for everything, and you can reserve yourself. She
dances very hard, and you'll be the fresher."
"She dances beautifully," said Lord Warburton, following her with his
eyes. "Ah, at last," he added, "she has given me a smile." He stood
there with his handsome, easy, important physiognomy; and as Isabel
observed him it came over her, as it had done before, that it was
strange a man of his mettle should take an interest in a little maid. It
struck her as a great incongruity; neither Pansy's small fascinations,
nor his own kindness, his good-nature, not even his need for amusement,
which was extreme and constant, were sufficient to account for it. "I
should like to dance with you," he went on in a moment, turning back to
Isabel; "but I think I like even better to talk with you."
"Yes, it's better, and it's more worthy of your dignity. Great statesmen
oughtn't to waltz."
"Don't be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dance with Miss
Osmond?"
"Ah, that's different. If you danced with her it would look simply like
a piece of kindness--as if you were doing it for her amusement. If you
dance with me you'll look as if you were doing it for your own."
"And pray haven't I a right to amuse myself?"
"No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your hands."
"The British Empire be hanged! You're always laughing at it."
"Amuse yourself with talking to me," said Isabel.
"I'm not sure it's really a recreation. You're too pointed; I've always
to be defending myself. And you strike me as more than usually dangerous
to-night. Will you absolutely not dance?"
"I can't leave my place. Pansy must find me here."
He was silent a little. "You're wonderfully good to her," he said
suddenly.
Isabel stared a little and smiled. "Can you imagine one's not being?"
"No indeed. I know how one is charmed with her. But you must have done a
great deal for her."
"I've taken her out with me," said Isabel, smiling still. "And I've seen
that she has proper clothes."
"Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You've talked to
her, advised her, helped her to develop."
"Ah yes, if she isn't the rose she has lived near it."
She laughed, and her companion did as much; but there was a certain
visible preoccupation in his face which interfered with complete
hilarity. "We all try to live as near it as we can," he said after a
moment's hesitation.
Isabel turned away; Pansy was about to be restored to her, and she
welcomed the diversion. We know how much she liked Lord Warburton; she
thought him pleasanter even than the sum of his merits warranted; there
was something in his friendship that appeared a kind of resource in case
of indefinite need; it was like having a large balance at the bank. She
felt happier when he was in the room; there was something reassuring in
his approach; the sound of his voice reminded her of the beneficence of
nature. Yet for all that it didn't suit her that he should be too near
her, that he should take too much of her good-will for granted. She was
afraid of that; she averted herself from it; she wished he wouldn't. She
felt that if he should come too near, as it were, it might be in her to
flash out and bid him keep his distance. Pansy came back to Isabel with
another rent in her skirt, which was the inevitable consequence of the
first and which she displayed to Isabel with serious eyes. There were
too many gentlemen in uniform; they wore those dreadful spurs, which
were fatal to the dresses of little maids. It hereupon became apparent
that the resources of women are innumerable. Isabel devoted herself
to Pansy's desecrated drapery; she fumbled for a pin and repaired the
injury; she smiled and listened to her account of her adventures. Her
attention, her sympathy were immediate and active; and they were
in direct proportion to a sentiment with which they were in no way
connected--a lively conjecture as to whether Lord Warburton might be
trying to make love to her. It was not simply his words just then; it
was others as well; it was the reference and the continuity. This was
what she thought about while she pinned up Pansy's dress. If it were
so, as she feared, he was of course unwitting; he himself had not taken
account of his intention. But this made it none the more auspicious,
made the situation none less impossible. The sooner he should get back
into right relations with things the better. He immediately began
to talk to Pansy--on whom it was certainly mystifying to see that he
dropped a smile of chastened devotion. Pansy replied, as usual, with a
little air of conscientious aspiration; he had to bend toward her a good
deal in conversation, and her eyes, as usual, wandered up and down his
robust person as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She always
seemed a little frightened; yet her fright was not of the painful
character that suggests dislike; on the contrary, she looked as if she
knew that he knew she liked him. Isabel left them together a little and
wandered toward a friend whom she saw near and with whom she talked till
the music of the following dance began, for which she knew Pansy to be
also engaged. The girl joined her presently, with a little fluttered
flush, and Isabel, who scrupulously took Osmond's view of his daughter's
complete dependence, consigned her, as a precious and momentary loan,
to her appointed partner. About all this matter she had her own
imaginations, her own reserves; there were moments when Pansy's extreme
adhesiveness made each of them, to her sense, look foolish. But Osmond
had given her a sort of tableau of her position as his daughter's
duenna, which consisted of gracious alternations of concession and
contraction; and there were directions of his which she liked to think
she obeyed to the letter. Perhaps, as regards some of them, it was
because her doing so appeared to reduce them to the absurd.
After Pansy had been led away, she found Lord Warburton drawing near her
again. She rested her eyes on him steadily; she wished she could sound
his thoughts. But he had no appearance of confusion. "She has promised
to dance with me later," he said.
"I'm glad of that. I suppose you've engaged her for the cotillion."
At this he looked a little awkward. "No, I didn't ask her for that. It's
a quadrille."
"Ah, you're not clever!" said Isabel almost angrily. "I told her to keep
the cotillion in case you should ask for it."
"Poor little maid, fancy that!" And Lord Warburton laughed frankly. "Of
course I will if you like."
"If I like? Oh, if you dance with her only because I like it--!"
"I'm afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young fellows on her
book."
Isabel dropped her eyes, reflecting rapidly; Lord Warburton stood there
looking at her and she felt his eyes on her face. She felt much inclined
to ask him to remove them. She didn't do so, however; she only said to
him, after a minute, with her own raised: "Please let me understand."
"Understand what?"
"You told me ten days ago that you'd like to marry my stepdaughter.
You've not forgotten it!"
"Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning."
"Ah," said Isabel, "he didn't mention to me that he had heard from you."
Lord Warburton stammered a little. "I--I didn't send my letter."
"Perhaps you forgot THAT."
"No, I wasn't satisfied with it. It's an awkward sort of letter to
write, you know. But I shall send it to-night."
"At three o'clock in the morning?"
"I mean later, in the course of the day."
"Very good. You still wish then to marry her?"
"Very much indeed."
"Aren't you afraid that you'll bore her?" And as her companion stared at
this enquiry Isabel added: "If she can't dance with you for half an hour
how will she be able to dance with you for life?"
"Ah," said Lord Warburton readily, "I'll let her dance with other
people! About the cotillion, the fact is I thought that you--that you--"
"That I would do it with you? I told you I'd do nothing."
"Exactly; so that while it's going on I might find some quiet corner
where we may sit down and talk."
"Oh," said Isabel gravely, "you're much too considerate of me."
When the cotillion came Pansy was found to have engaged herself,
thinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton had no intentions.
Isabel recommended him to seek another partner, but he assured her that
he would dance with no one but herself. As, however, she had, in spite
of the remonstrances of her hostess, declined other invitations on the
ground that she was not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to
make an exception in Lord Warburton's favour.
"After all I don't care to dance," he said; "it's a barbarous amusement:
I'd much rather talk." And he intimated that he had discovered exactly
the corner he had been looking for--a quiet nook in one of the smaller
rooms, where the music would come to them faintly and not interfere
with conversation. Isabel had decided to let him carry out his idea; she
wished to be satisfied. She wandered away from the ball-room with him,
though she knew her husband desired she should not lose sight of his
daughter. It was with his daughter's pretendant, however; that would
make it right for Osmond. On her way out of the ball-room she came upon
Edward Rosier, who was standing in a doorway, with folded arms, looking
at the dance in the attitude of a young man without illusions. She
stopped a moment and asked him if he were not dancing.
"Certainly not, if I can't dance with HER!" he answered.
"You had better go away then," said Isabel with the manner of good
counsel.
"I shall not go till she does!" And he let Lord Warburton pass without
giving him a look.
This nobleman, however, had noticed the melancholy youth, and he
asked Isabel who her dismal friend was, remarking that he had seen him
somewhere before.
"It's the young man I've told you about, who's in love with Pansy."
"Ah yes, I remember. He looks rather bad."
"He has reason. My husband won't listen to him."
"What's the matter with him?" Lord Warburton enquired. "He seems very
harmless."
"He hasn't money enough, and he isn't very clever."
Lord Warburton listened with interest; he seemed struck with this
account of Edward Rosier. "Dear me; he looked a well-set-up young
fellow."
"So he is, but my husband's very particular."
"Oh, I see." And Lord Warburton paused a moment. "How much money has he
got?" he then ventured to ask.
"Some forty thousand francs a year."
"Sixteen hundred pounds? Ah, but that's very good, you know."
"So I think. My husband, however, has larger ideas."
"Yes; I've noticed that your husband has very large ideas. Is he really
an idiot, the young man?"
"An idiot? Not in the least; he's charming. When he was twelve years old
I myself was in love with him."
"He doesn't look much more than twelve to-day," Lord Warburton rejoined
vaguely, looking about him. Then with more point, "Don't you think we
might sit here?" he asked.
"Wherever you please." The room was a sort of boudoir, pervaded by a
subdued, rose-coloured light; a lady and gentleman moved out of it as
our friends came in. "It's very kind of you to take such an interest in
Mr. Rosier," Isabel said.
"He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard long. I
wondered what ailed him."
"You're a just man," said Isabel. "You've a kind thought even for a
rival."
Lord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare. "A rival! Do you call him
my rival?"
"Surely--if you both wish to marry the same person."
"Yes--but since he has no chance!"
"I like you, however that may be, for putting your self in his place. It
shows imagination."
"You like me for it?" And Lord Warburton looked at her with an uncertain
eye. "I think you mean you're laughing at me for it."
"Yes, I'm laughing at you a little. But I like you as somebody to laugh
at."
"Ah well, then, let me enter into his situation a little more. What do
you suppose one could do for him?"
"Since I have been praising your imagination I'll leave you to imagine
that yourself," Isabel said. "Pansy too would like you for that."
"Miss Osmond? Ah, she, I flatter myself, likes me already."
"Very much, I think."
He waited a little; he was still questioning her face. "Well then, I
don't understand you. You don't mean that she cares for him?"
A quick blush sprang to his brow. "You told me she would have no wish
apart from her father's, and as I've gathered that he would favour
me--!" He paused a little and then suggested "Don't you see?" through
his blush.
"Yes, I told you she has an immense wish to please her father, and that
it would probably take her very far."
"That seems to me a very proper feeling," said Lord Warburton.
"Certainly; it's a very proper feeling." Isabel remained silent for some
moments; the room continued empty; the sound of the music reached them
with its richness softened by the interposing apartments. Then at last
she said: "But it hardly strikes me as the sort of feeling to which a
man would wish to be indebted for a wife."
"I don't know; if the wife's a good one and he thinks she does well!"
"Yes, of course you must think that."
"I do; I can't help it. You call that very British, of course."
"No, I don't. I think Pansy would do wonderfully well to marry you,
and I don't know who should know it better than you. But you're not in
love."
"Ah, yes I am, Mrs. Osmond!"
Isabel shook her head. "You like to think you are while you sit here
with me. But that's not how you strike me."
"I'm not like the young man in the doorway. I admit that. But what makes
it so unnatural? Could any one in the world be more loveable than Miss
Osmond?"
"No one, possibly. But love has nothing to do with good reasons."
"I don't agree with you. I'm delighted to have good reasons."
"Of course you are. If you were really in love you wouldn't care a straw
for them."
"Ah, really in love--really in love!" Lord Warburton exclaimed, folding
his arms, leaning back his head and stretching himself a little. "You
must remember that I'm forty-two years old. I won't pretend I'm as I
once was."
"Well, if you're sure," said Isabel, "it's all right."
He answered nothing; he sat there, with his head back, looking before
him. Abruptly, however, he changed his position; he turned quickly to
his friend. "Why are you so unwilling, so sceptical?" She met his eyes,
and for a moment they looked straight at each other. If she wished to
be satisfied she saw something that satisfied her; she saw in his
expression the gleam of an idea that she was uneasy on her own
account--that she was perhaps even in fear. It showed a suspicion, not a
hope, but such as it was it told her what she wanted to know. Not for an
instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal of marrying
her step-daughter an implication of increased nearness to herself, or
of thinking it, on such a betrayal, ominous. In that brief, extremely
personal gaze, however, deeper meanings passed between them than they
were conscious of at the moment.
"My dear Lord Warburton," she said, smiling, "you may do, so far as I'm
concerned, whatever comes into your head."
And with this she got up and wandered into the adjoining room, where,
within her companion's view, she was immediately addressed by a pair of
gentlemen, high personages in the Roman world, who met her as if they
had been looking for her. While she talked with them she found herself
regretting she had moved; it looked a little like running away--all the
more as Lord Warburton didn't follow her. She was glad of this, however,
and at any rate she was satisfied. She was so well satisfied that
when, in passing back into the ball-room, she found Edward Rosier still
planted in the doorway, she stopped and spoke to him again. "You did
right not to go away. I've some comfort for you."
"I need it," the young man softly wailed, "when I see you so awfully
thick with him!"
"Don't speak of him; I'll do what I can for you. I'm afraid it won't be
much, but what I can I'll do."
He looked at her with gloomy obliqueness. "What has suddenly brought you
round?"
"The sense that you are an inconvenience in doorways!" she answered,
smiling as she passed him. Half an hour later she took leave, with
Pansy, and at the foot of the staircase the two ladies, with many
other departing guests, waited a while for their carriage. Just as it
approached Lord Warburton came out of the house and assisted them to
reach their vehicle. He stood a moment at the door, asking Pansy if
she had amused herself; and she, having answered him, fell back with a
little air of fatigue. Then Isabel, at the window, detaining him by
a movement of her finger, murmured gently: "Don't forget to send your
letter to her father!"
| In Chapter 43, Isabel guesses that Warburton may act or abstain from acting on the basis of her own desires: and it is this that makes her refuse to force him to do so. They exchange a look that is very significant for indicating how psychological motivation of two people with good intentions can play off of each other. The narrator tells us that Isabel sees the gleam of an idea in Warburton's eye that Isabel herself is uneasy. This is a very difficult construction: Isabel knows that Warburton is thinking about Isabel's thoughts and desires. The next sentence is attributed neither to Warburton, nor to Isabel - it is simply a statement that "not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal... an implication of increased nearness to herself" . It could either mean that Warburton is trying to prevent Isabel from knowing that he is acting all out of his love for Isabel, or it could mean that Isabel notices Warburton is trying to prevent her from knowing his true motivation. Two people with good intentions, in other words, want to act only when they understand other people's desires and motivations, rather than acting purely out of their own self-interest. This seems to be the version of morality that James is propagating: one must understand oneself within a network of social relations and amidst the motivations of others in order to act in a moral way. The conversation between Countess Gemini and Henrietta Stackpole is one of the few conversations we get between two characters of minor importance. It is comical that these two characters get along: Countess Gemini has been described as a frivolous fabulist, and Henrietta Stackpole is very straightforward and honest. Henrietta Stackpole represents the New World and the possibilities open to modern women, insofar as she has an occupation that enables her to travel, think, observe, and be financially independent. Countess Gemini represents the decadence of the Old World, having married for position and money, she is left without any real values. Ralph and Isabel's conversation in Chapter 45 is significant because it shows Isabel finally beginning to move about the cage which Osmond has built for her: she finally starts to assert her own idea of how one should behave in life, rather than following Osmond's conventional way. Convention dictates that a woman should not oppose her husband's will. Isabel here feels that a heavy obligation. However, she realizes that if she convinces Lord Warburton to propose marriage to Pansy, he will only be doing it out of his love for Isabel. In Isabel's conversation with Pansy, in Chapter 46 then, Isabel seems to realize what more concretely what her morality is: she believes that people should act only from their own ideas and desires, and do so in an open and honest way. | analysis |
I have already had reason to say that Isabel knew her husband to be
displeased by the continuance of Ralph's visit to Rome. That knowledge
was very present to her as she went to her cousin's hotel the day
after she had invited Lord Warburton to give a tangible proof of his
sincerity; and at this moment, as at others, she had a sufficient
perception of the sources of Osmond's opposition. He wished her to have
no freedom of mind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostle
of freedom. It was just because he was this, Isabel said to herself,
that it was a refreshment to go and see him. It will be perceived that
she partook of this refreshment in spite of her husband's aversion to
it, that is partook of it, as she flattered herself, discreetly. She had
not as yet undertaken to act in direct opposition to his wishes; he was
her appointed and inscribed master; she gazed at moments with a sort
of incredulous blankness at this fact. It weighed upon her imagination,
however; constantly present to her mind were all the traditionary
decencies and sanctities of marriage. The idea of violating them filled
her with shame as well as with dread, for on giving herself away she had
lost sight of this contingency in the perfect belief that her husband's
intentions were as generous as her own. She seemed to see, none the
less, the rapid approach of the day when she should have to take back
something she had solemnly bestown. Such a ceremony would be odious and
monstrous; she tried to shut her eyes to it meanwhile. Osmond would do
nothing to help it by beginning first; he would put that burden upon her
to the end. He had not yet formally forbidden her to call upon Ralph;
but she felt sure that unless Ralph should very soon depart this
prohibition would come. How could poor Ralph depart? The weather as yet
made it impossible. She could perfectly understand her husband's wish
for the event; she didn't, to be just, see how he COULD like her to be
with her cousin. Ralph never said a word against him, but Osmond's
sore, mute protest was none the less founded. If he should positively
interpose, if he should put forth his authority, she would have to
decide, and that wouldn't be easy. The prospect made her heart beat and
her cheeks burn, as I say, in advance; there were moments when, in her
wish to avoid an open rupture, she found herself wishing Ralph would
start even at a risk. And it was of no use that, when catching herself
in this state of mind, she called herself a feeble spirit, a coward.
It was not that she loved Ralph less, but that almost anything seemed
preferable to repudiating the most serious act--the single sacred
act--of her life. That appeared to make the whole future hideous.
To break with Osmond once would be to break for ever; any open
acknowledgement of irreconcilable needs would be an admission that
their whole attempt had proved a failure. For them there could be
no condonement, no compromise, no easy forgetfulness, no formal
readjustment. They had attempted only one thing, but that one thing was
to have been exquisite. Once they missed it nothing else would do; there
was no conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment, Isabel
went to the Hotel de Paris as often as she thought well; the measure
of propriety was in the canon of taste, and there couldn't have been
a better proof that morality was, so to speak, a matter of earnest
appreciation. Isabel's application of that measure had been particularly
free to-day, for in addition to the general truth that she couldn't
leave Ralph to die alone she had something important to ask of him. This
indeed was Gilbert's business as well as her own.
She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. "I want you to answer
me a question. It's about Lord Warburton."
"I think I guess your question," Ralph answered from his arm-chair, out
of which his thin legs protruded at greater length than ever.
"Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it."
"Oh, I don't say I can do that."
"You're intimate with him," she said; "you've a great deal of
observation of him."
"Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!"
"Why should he dissimulate? That's not his nature."
"Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculiar," said Ralph
with an air of private amusement.
"To a certain extent--yes. But is he really in love?"
"Very much, I think. I can make that out."
"Ah!" said Isabel with a certain dryness.
Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched with
mystification. "You say that as if you were disappointed."
Isabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them thoughtfully.
"It's after all no business of mine."
"You're very philosophic," said her cousin. And then in a moment: "May I
enquire what you're talking about?"
Isabel stared. "I thought you knew. Lord Warburton tells me he wants,
of all things in the world, to marry Pansy. I've told you that before,
without eliciting a comment from you. You might risk one this morning, I
think. Is it your belief that he really cares for her?"
"Ah, for Pansy, no!" cried Ralph very positively.
"But you said just now he did."
Ralph waited a moment. "That he cared for you, Mrs. Osmond."
Isabel shook her head gravely. "That's nonsense, you know."
"Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton's, not mine."
"That would be very tiresome." She spoke, as she flattered herself, with
much subtlety.
"I ought to tell you indeed," Ralph went on, "that to me he has denied
it."
"It's very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told you
that he's in love with Pansy?"
"He has spoken very well of her--very properly. He has let me know, of
course, that he thinks she would do very well at Lockleigh."
"Does he really think it?"
"Ah, what Warburton really thinks--!" said Ralph.
Isabel fell to smoothing her gloves again; they were long, loose gloves
on which she could freely expend herself. Soon, however, she looked
up, and then, "Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!" she cried abruptly and
passionately.
It was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, and the
words shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a long murmur of
relief, of pity, of tenderness; it seemed to him that at last the gulf
between them had been bridged. It was this that made him exclaim in a
moment: "How unhappy you must be!"
He had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-possession, and the
first use she made of it was to pretend she had not heard him. "When I
talk of your helping me I talk great nonsense," she said with a quick
smile. "The idea of my troubling you with my domestic embarrassments!
The matter's very simple; Lord Warburton must get on by himself. I can't
undertake to see him through."
"He ought to succeed easily," said Ralph.
Isabel debated. "Yes--but he has not always succeeded."
"Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised me. Is Miss
Osmond capable of giving us a surprise?"
"It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he'll let
the matter drop."
"He'll do nothing dishonourable," said Ralph.
"I'm very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable than for him to
leave the poor child alone. She cares for another person, and it's cruel
to attempt to bribe her by magnificent offers to give him up."
"Cruel to the other person perhaps--the one she cares for. But Warburton
isn't obliged to mind that."
"No, cruel to her," said Isabel. "She would be very unhappy if she were
to allow herself to be persuaded to desert poor Mr. Rosier. That idea
seems to amuse you; of course you're not in love with him. He has the
merit--for Pansy--of being in love with Pansy. She can see at a glance
that Lord Warburton isn't."
"He'd be very good to her," said Ralph.
"He has been good to her already. Fortunately, however, he has not said
a word to disturb her. He could come and bid her good-bye to-morrow with
perfect propriety."
"How would your husband like that?"
"Not at all; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he must obtain
satisfaction himself."
"Has he commissioned you to obtain it?" Ralph ventured to ask.
"It was natural that as an old friend of Lord Warburton's--an older
friend, that is, than Gilbert--I should take an interest in his
intentions."
"Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean?"
Isabel hesitated, frowning a little. "Let me understand. Are you
pleading his cause?"
"Not in the least. I'm very glad he shouldn't become your stepdaughter's
husband. It makes such a very queer relation to you!" said Ralph,
smiling. "But I'm rather nervous lest your husband should think you
haven't pushed him enough."
Isabel found herself able to smile as well as he. "He knows me well
enough not to have expected me to push. He himself has no intention
of pushing, I presume. I'm not afraid I shall not be able to justify
myself!" she said lightly.
Her mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it on again, to
Ralph's infinite disappointment. He had caught a glimpse of her natural
face and he wished immensely to look into it. He had an almost savage
desire to hear her complain of her husband--hear her say that she should
be held accountable for Lord Warburton's defection. Ralph was certain
that this was her situation; he knew by instinct, in advance, the form
that in such an event Osmond's displeasure would take. It could only
take the meanest and cruellest. He would have liked to warn Isabel of
it--to let her see at least how he judged for her and how he knew. It
little mattered that Isabel would know much better; it was for his own
satisfaction more than for hers that he longed to show her he was not
deceived. He tried and tried again to make her betray Osmond; he felt
cold-blooded, cruel, dishonourable almost, in doing so. But it scarcely
mattered, for he only failed. What had she come for then, and why did
she seem almost to offer him a chance to violate their tacit convention?
Why did she ask him his advice if she gave him no liberty to answer her?
How could they talk of her domestic embarrassments, as it pleased her
humorously to designate them, if the principal factor was not to be
mentioned? These contradictions were themselves but an indication of her
trouble, and her cry for help, just before, was the only thing he was
bound to consider. "You'll be decidedly at variance, all the same," he
said in a moment. And as she answered nothing, looking as if she scarce
understood, "You'll find yourselves thinking very differently," he
continued.
"That may easily happen, among the most united couples!" She took up her
parasol; he saw she was nervous, afraid of what he might say. "It's a
matter we can hardly quarrel about, however," she added; "for almost all
the interest is on his side. That's very natural. Pansy's after all his
daughter--not mine." And she put out her hand to wish him goodbye.
Ralph took an inward resolution that she shouldn't leave him without
his letting her know that he knew everything: it seemed too great an
opportunity to lose. "Do you know what his interest will make him say?"
he asked as he took her hand. She shook her head, rather dryly--not
discouragingly--and he went on. "It will make him say that your want
of zeal is owing to jealousy." He stopped a moment; her face made him
afraid.
"To jealousy?"
"To jealousy of his daughter."
She blushed red and threw back her head. "You're not kind," she said in
a voice that he had never heard on her lips.
"Be frank with me and you'll see," he answered.
But she made no reply; she only pulled her hand out of his own, which he
tried still to hold, and rapidly withdrew from the room. She made up her
mind to speak to Pansy, and she took an occasion on the same day, going
to the girl's room before dinner. Pansy was already dressed; she was
always in advance of the time: it seemed to illustrate her pretty
patience and the graceful stillness with which she could sit and wait.
At present she was seated, in her fresh array, before the bed-room
fire; she had blown out her candles on the completion of her toilet, in
accordance with the economical habits in which she had been brought up
and which she was now more careful than ever to observe; so that
the room was lighted only by a couple of logs. The rooms in Palazzo
Roccanera were as spacious as they were numerous, and Pansy's virginal
bower was an immense chamber with a dark, heavily-timbered ceiling.
Its diminutive mistress, in the midst of it, appeared but a speck of
humanity, and as she got up, with quick deference, to welcome Isabel,
the latter was more than ever struck with her shy sincerity. Isabel
had a difficult task--the only thing was to perform it as simply as
possible. She felt bitter and angry, but she warned herself against
betraying this heat. She was afraid even of looking too grave, or at
least too stern; she was afraid of causing alarm. But Pansy seemed to
have guessed she had come more or less as a confessor; for after she
had moved the chair in which she had been sitting a little nearer to the
fire and Isabel had taken her place in it, she kneeled down on a
cushion in front of her, looking up and resting her clasped hands on her
stepmother's knees. What Isabel wished to do was to hear from her own
lips that her mind was not occupied with Lord Warburton; but if she
desired the assurance she felt herself by no means at liberty to provoke
it. The girl's father would have qualified this as rank treachery; and
indeed Isabel knew that if Pansy should display the smallest germ of
a disposition to encourage Lord Warburton her own duty was to hold her
tongue. It was difficult to interrogate without appearing to suggest;
Pansy's supreme simplicity, an innocence even more complete than Isabel
had yet judged it, gave to the most tentative enquiry something of the
effect of an admonition. As she knelt there in the vague firelight, with
her pretty dress dimly shining, her hands folded half in appeal and half
in submission, her soft eyes, raised and fixed, full of the seriousness
of the situation, she looked to Isabel like a childish martyr decked
out for sacrifice and scarcely presuming even to hope to avert it. When
Isabel said to her that she had never yet spoken to her of what might
have been going on in relation to her getting married, but that her
silence had not been indifference or ignorance, had only been the desire
to leave her at liberty, Pansy bent forward, raised her face nearer
and nearer, and with a little murmur which evidently expressed a deep
longing, answered that she had greatly wished her to speak and that she
begged her to advise her now.
"It's difficult for me to advise you," Isabel returned. "I don't know
how I can undertake that. That's for your father; you must get his
advice and, above all, you must act on it."
At this Pansy dropped her eyes; for a moment she said nothing. "I think
I should like your advice better than papa's," she presently remarked.
"That's not as it should be," said Isabel coldly. "I love you very much,
but your father loves you better."
"It isn't because you love me--it's because you're a lady," Pansy
answered with the air of saying something very reasonable. "A lady can
advise a young girl better than a man."
"I advise you then to pay the greatest respect to your father's wishes."
"Ah yes," said the child eagerly, "I must do that."
"But if I speak to you now about your getting married it's not for your
own sake, it's for mine," Isabel went on. "If I try to learn from you
what you expect, what you desire, it's only that I may act accordingly."
Pansy stared, and then very quickly, "Will you do everything I want?"
she asked.
"Before I say yes I must know what such things are."
Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wanted in life was to
marry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her and she had told him she would do so
if her papa would allow it. Now her papa wouldn't allow it.
"Very well then, it's impossible," Isabel pronounced.
"Yes, it's impossible," said Pansy without a sigh and with the same
extreme attention in her clear little face.
"You must think of something else then," Isabel went on; but Pansy,
sighing at this, told her that she had attempted that feat without the
least success.
"You think of those who think of you," she said with a faint smile. "I
know Mr. Rosier thinks of me."
"He ought not to," said Isabel loftily. "Your father has expressly
requested he shouldn't."
"He can't help it, because he knows I think of HIM."
"You shouldn't think of him. There's some excuse for him, perhaps; but
there's none for you."
"I wish you would try to find one," the girl exclaimed as if she were
praying to the Madonna.
"I should be very sorry to attempt it," said the Madonna with unusual
frigidity. "If you knew some one else was thinking of you, would you
think of him?"
"No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has the right."
"Ah, but I don't admit Mr. Rosier's right!" Isabel hypocritically cried.
Pansy only gazed at her, evidently much puzzled; and Isabel, taking
advantage of it, began to represent to her the wretched consequences of
disobeying her father. At this Pansy stopped her with the assurance that
she would never disobey him, would never marry without his consent. And
she announced, in the serenest, simplest tone, that, though she might
never marry Mr. Rosier, she would never cease to think of him. She
appeared to have accepted the idea of eternal singleness; but Isabel of
course was free to reflect that she had no conception of its meaning.
She was perfectly sincere; she was prepared to give up her lover. This
might seem an important step toward taking another, but for Pansy,
evidently, it failed to lead in that direction. She felt no bitterness
toward her father; there was no bitterness in her heart; there was only
the sweetness of fidelity to Edward Rosier, and a strange, exquisite
intimation that she could prove it better by remaining single than even
by marrying him.
"Your father would like you to make a better marriage," said Isabel.
"Mr. Rosier's fortune is not at all large."
"How do you mean better--if that would be good enough? And I have myself
so little money; why should I look for a fortune?"
"Your having so little is a reason for looking for more." With which
Isabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she felt as if her face
were hideously insincere. It was what she was doing for Osmond; it was
what one had to do for Osmond! Pansy's solemn eyes, fixed on her own,
almost embarrassed her; she was ashamed to think she had made so light
of the girl's preference.
"What should you like me to do?" her companion softly demanded.
The question was a terrible one, and Isabel took refuge in timorous
vagueness. "To remember all the pleasure it's in your power to give your
father."
"To marry some one else, you mean--if he should ask me?"
For a moment Isabel's answer caused itself to be waited for; then she
heard herself utter it in the stillness that Pansy's attention seemed to
make. "Yes--to marry some one else."
The child's eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed she was doubting
her sincerity, and the impression took force from her slowly getting
up from her cushion. She stood there a moment with her small hands
unclasped and then quavered out: "Well, I hope no one will ask me!"
"There has been a question of that. Some one else would have been ready
to ask you."
"I don't think he can have been ready," said Pansy.
"It would appear so if he had been sure he'd succeed."
"If he had been sure? Then he wasn't ready!"
Isabel thought this rather sharp; she also got up and stood a moment
looking into the fire. "Lord Warburton has shown you great attention,"
she resumed; "of course you know it's of him I speak." She found
herself, against her expectation, almost placed in the position of
justifying herself; which led her to introduce this nobleman more
crudely than she had intended.
"He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much. But if you mean
that he'll propose for me I think you're mistaken."
"Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely."
Pansy shook her head with a little wise smile. "Lord Warburton won't
propose simply to please papa."
"Your father would like you to encourage him," Isabel went on
mechanically.
"How can I encourage him?"
"I don't know. Your father must tell you that."
Pansy said nothing for a moment; she only continued to smile as if
she were in possession of a bright assurance. "There's no danger--no
danger!" she declared at last.
There was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicity in her
believing it, which conduced to Isabel's awkwardness. She felt accused
of dishonesty, and the idea was disgusting. To repair her self-respect
she was on the point of saying that Lord Warburton had let her know that
there was a danger. But she didn't; she only said--in her embarrassment
rather wide of the mark--that he surely had been most kind, most
friendly.
"Yes, he has been very kind," Pansy answered. "That's what I like him
for."
"Why then is the difficulty so great?"
"I've always felt sure of his knowing that I don't want--what did you
say I should do?--to encourage him. He knows I don't want to marry,
and he wants me to know that he therefore won't trouble me. That's the
meaning of his kindness. It's as if he said to me: 'I like you very
much, but if it doesn't please you I'll never say it again.' I
think that's very kind, very noble," Pansy went on with deepening
positiveness. "That is all we've said to each other. And he doesn't care
for me either. Ah no, there's no danger."
Isabel was touched with wonder at the depths of perception of which
this submissive little person was capable; she felt afraid of Pansy's
wisdom--began almost to retreat before it. "You must tell your father
that," she remarked reservedly.
"I think I'd rather not," Pansy unreservedly answered.
"You oughtn't to let him have false hopes."
"Perhaps not; but it will be good for me that he should. So long as he
believes that Lord Warburton intends anything of the kind you say, papa
won't propose any one else. And that will be an advantage for me," said
the child very lucidly.
There was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made her companion
draw a long breath. It relieved this friend of a heavy responsibility.
Pansy had a sufficient illumination of her own, and Isabel felt that
she herself just now had no light to spare from her small stock.
Nevertheless it still clung to her that she must be loyal to Osmond,
that she was on her honour in dealing with his daughter. Under the
influence of this sentiment she threw out another suggestion before she
retired--a suggestion with which it seemed to her that she should have
done her utmost.
"Your father takes for granted at least that you would like to marry a
nobleman."
Pansy stood in the open doorway; she had drawn back the curtain for
Isabel to pass. "I think Mr. Rosier looks like one!" she remarked very
gravely.
| Isabel knows that her husband dislikes her visiting Ralph. She thinks of Ralph though as an "apostle of freedom" who allows her to refresh her own mind. However Isabel is very much aware of how her visiting Ralph against the wishes of her husband would not fit the definition of a conventional marriage, and she cowers at the idea that she might end up meeting her husband in open opposition. Sometimes she even Ralph would leave because she is afraid of seeming to repudiate her husband in her defiance. Isabel visits Ralph one day and asks him if Lord Warburton is really in love with Pansy, and Ralph responds that he is not in love with Pansy, implying that he is in love with Isabel. When Ralph treats the matter lightly, Isabel sighs that Ralph gives her no help. Ralph compassionately declares, "How unhappy you must be. since it is the first time she has ever asked for help. Isabel however quickly recovers and brushes the matter off as a "domestic embarrassment. Isabel's mask has only dropped for an instant, and Ralph feels disappointed. He tries again and again to make her betray her husband in words. He feels he hears her cry for help in the fact that she is contradicting herself in matters of domestic embarrassments. Ralph then suggests that Osmond will think Isabel is jealous of Pansy. Isabel blushes at the idea. Later that day, Isabel decides to speak to Pansy. She wants to know how Pansy feels about Lord Warburton. She knows that Osmond would have thought this an act of treachery. Isabel tells Pansy that she wants to know what Pansy desires so that Isabel herself may act accordingly. Pansy tells her that all she wants is to marry Mr. Rosier. Isabel says it is impossible, and that she must think of something else. Isabel explains to Pansy the consequences of disobeying her father, and she also tells him that Edward Rosier does not have enough money to marry her. As she explains this, she feels incredibly insincere. She suggests that Osmond might propose another suitor for marriage, Lord Warburton. Pansy smiles with bright assurance: she is sure that Lord Warburton will not ask. Isabel feels awkward at Pansy's assurance, because she feels like she is being accused of dishonesty. Pansy explains that Warburton is kind enough not to ask | summary |
I have already had reason to say that Isabel knew her husband to be
displeased by the continuance of Ralph's visit to Rome. That knowledge
was very present to her as she went to her cousin's hotel the day
after she had invited Lord Warburton to give a tangible proof of his
sincerity; and at this moment, as at others, she had a sufficient
perception of the sources of Osmond's opposition. He wished her to have
no freedom of mind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostle
of freedom. It was just because he was this, Isabel said to herself,
that it was a refreshment to go and see him. It will be perceived that
she partook of this refreshment in spite of her husband's aversion to
it, that is partook of it, as she flattered herself, discreetly. She had
not as yet undertaken to act in direct opposition to his wishes; he was
her appointed and inscribed master; she gazed at moments with a sort
of incredulous blankness at this fact. It weighed upon her imagination,
however; constantly present to her mind were all the traditionary
decencies and sanctities of marriage. The idea of violating them filled
her with shame as well as with dread, for on giving herself away she had
lost sight of this contingency in the perfect belief that her husband's
intentions were as generous as her own. She seemed to see, none the
less, the rapid approach of the day when she should have to take back
something she had solemnly bestown. Such a ceremony would be odious and
monstrous; she tried to shut her eyes to it meanwhile. Osmond would do
nothing to help it by beginning first; he would put that burden upon her
to the end. He had not yet formally forbidden her to call upon Ralph;
but she felt sure that unless Ralph should very soon depart this
prohibition would come. How could poor Ralph depart? The weather as yet
made it impossible. She could perfectly understand her husband's wish
for the event; she didn't, to be just, see how he COULD like her to be
with her cousin. Ralph never said a word against him, but Osmond's
sore, mute protest was none the less founded. If he should positively
interpose, if he should put forth his authority, she would have to
decide, and that wouldn't be easy. The prospect made her heart beat and
her cheeks burn, as I say, in advance; there were moments when, in her
wish to avoid an open rupture, she found herself wishing Ralph would
start even at a risk. And it was of no use that, when catching herself
in this state of mind, she called herself a feeble spirit, a coward.
It was not that she loved Ralph less, but that almost anything seemed
preferable to repudiating the most serious act--the single sacred
act--of her life. That appeared to make the whole future hideous.
To break with Osmond once would be to break for ever; any open
acknowledgement of irreconcilable needs would be an admission that
their whole attempt had proved a failure. For them there could be
no condonement, no compromise, no easy forgetfulness, no formal
readjustment. They had attempted only one thing, but that one thing was
to have been exquisite. Once they missed it nothing else would do; there
was no conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment, Isabel
went to the Hotel de Paris as often as she thought well; the measure
of propriety was in the canon of taste, and there couldn't have been
a better proof that morality was, so to speak, a matter of earnest
appreciation. Isabel's application of that measure had been particularly
free to-day, for in addition to the general truth that she couldn't
leave Ralph to die alone she had something important to ask of him. This
indeed was Gilbert's business as well as her own.
She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. "I want you to answer
me a question. It's about Lord Warburton."
"I think I guess your question," Ralph answered from his arm-chair, out
of which his thin legs protruded at greater length than ever.
"Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it."
"Oh, I don't say I can do that."
"You're intimate with him," she said; "you've a great deal of
observation of him."
"Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!"
"Why should he dissimulate? That's not his nature."
"Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculiar," said Ralph
with an air of private amusement.
"To a certain extent--yes. But is he really in love?"
"Very much, I think. I can make that out."
"Ah!" said Isabel with a certain dryness.
Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched with
mystification. "You say that as if you were disappointed."
Isabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them thoughtfully.
"It's after all no business of mine."
"You're very philosophic," said her cousin. And then in a moment: "May I
enquire what you're talking about?"
Isabel stared. "I thought you knew. Lord Warburton tells me he wants,
of all things in the world, to marry Pansy. I've told you that before,
without eliciting a comment from you. You might risk one this morning, I
think. Is it your belief that he really cares for her?"
"Ah, for Pansy, no!" cried Ralph very positively.
"But you said just now he did."
Ralph waited a moment. "That he cared for you, Mrs. Osmond."
Isabel shook her head gravely. "That's nonsense, you know."
"Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton's, not mine."
"That would be very tiresome." She spoke, as she flattered herself, with
much subtlety.
"I ought to tell you indeed," Ralph went on, "that to me he has denied
it."
"It's very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told you
that he's in love with Pansy?"
"He has spoken very well of her--very properly. He has let me know, of
course, that he thinks she would do very well at Lockleigh."
"Does he really think it?"
"Ah, what Warburton really thinks--!" said Ralph.
Isabel fell to smoothing her gloves again; they were long, loose gloves
on which she could freely expend herself. Soon, however, she looked
up, and then, "Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!" she cried abruptly and
passionately.
It was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, and the
words shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a long murmur of
relief, of pity, of tenderness; it seemed to him that at last the gulf
between them had been bridged. It was this that made him exclaim in a
moment: "How unhappy you must be!"
He had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-possession, and the
first use she made of it was to pretend she had not heard him. "When I
talk of your helping me I talk great nonsense," she said with a quick
smile. "The idea of my troubling you with my domestic embarrassments!
The matter's very simple; Lord Warburton must get on by himself. I can't
undertake to see him through."
"He ought to succeed easily," said Ralph.
Isabel debated. "Yes--but he has not always succeeded."
"Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised me. Is Miss
Osmond capable of giving us a surprise?"
"It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he'll let
the matter drop."
"He'll do nothing dishonourable," said Ralph.
"I'm very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable than for him to
leave the poor child alone. She cares for another person, and it's cruel
to attempt to bribe her by magnificent offers to give him up."
"Cruel to the other person perhaps--the one she cares for. But Warburton
isn't obliged to mind that."
"No, cruel to her," said Isabel. "She would be very unhappy if she were
to allow herself to be persuaded to desert poor Mr. Rosier. That idea
seems to amuse you; of course you're not in love with him. He has the
merit--for Pansy--of being in love with Pansy. She can see at a glance
that Lord Warburton isn't."
"He'd be very good to her," said Ralph.
"He has been good to her already. Fortunately, however, he has not said
a word to disturb her. He could come and bid her good-bye to-morrow with
perfect propriety."
"How would your husband like that?"
"Not at all; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he must obtain
satisfaction himself."
"Has he commissioned you to obtain it?" Ralph ventured to ask.
"It was natural that as an old friend of Lord Warburton's--an older
friend, that is, than Gilbert--I should take an interest in his
intentions."
"Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean?"
Isabel hesitated, frowning a little. "Let me understand. Are you
pleading his cause?"
"Not in the least. I'm very glad he shouldn't become your stepdaughter's
husband. It makes such a very queer relation to you!" said Ralph,
smiling. "But I'm rather nervous lest your husband should think you
haven't pushed him enough."
Isabel found herself able to smile as well as he. "He knows me well
enough not to have expected me to push. He himself has no intention
of pushing, I presume. I'm not afraid I shall not be able to justify
myself!" she said lightly.
Her mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it on again, to
Ralph's infinite disappointment. He had caught a glimpse of her natural
face and he wished immensely to look into it. He had an almost savage
desire to hear her complain of her husband--hear her say that she should
be held accountable for Lord Warburton's defection. Ralph was certain
that this was her situation; he knew by instinct, in advance, the form
that in such an event Osmond's displeasure would take. It could only
take the meanest and cruellest. He would have liked to warn Isabel of
it--to let her see at least how he judged for her and how he knew. It
little mattered that Isabel would know much better; it was for his own
satisfaction more than for hers that he longed to show her he was not
deceived. He tried and tried again to make her betray Osmond; he felt
cold-blooded, cruel, dishonourable almost, in doing so. But it scarcely
mattered, for he only failed. What had she come for then, and why did
she seem almost to offer him a chance to violate their tacit convention?
Why did she ask him his advice if she gave him no liberty to answer her?
How could they talk of her domestic embarrassments, as it pleased her
humorously to designate them, if the principal factor was not to be
mentioned? These contradictions were themselves but an indication of her
trouble, and her cry for help, just before, was the only thing he was
bound to consider. "You'll be decidedly at variance, all the same," he
said in a moment. And as she answered nothing, looking as if she scarce
understood, "You'll find yourselves thinking very differently," he
continued.
"That may easily happen, among the most united couples!" She took up her
parasol; he saw she was nervous, afraid of what he might say. "It's a
matter we can hardly quarrel about, however," she added; "for almost all
the interest is on his side. That's very natural. Pansy's after all his
daughter--not mine." And she put out her hand to wish him goodbye.
Ralph took an inward resolution that she shouldn't leave him without
his letting her know that he knew everything: it seemed too great an
opportunity to lose. "Do you know what his interest will make him say?"
he asked as he took her hand. She shook her head, rather dryly--not
discouragingly--and he went on. "It will make him say that your want
of zeal is owing to jealousy." He stopped a moment; her face made him
afraid.
"To jealousy?"
"To jealousy of his daughter."
She blushed red and threw back her head. "You're not kind," she said in
a voice that he had never heard on her lips.
"Be frank with me and you'll see," he answered.
But she made no reply; she only pulled her hand out of his own, which he
tried still to hold, and rapidly withdrew from the room. She made up her
mind to speak to Pansy, and she took an occasion on the same day, going
to the girl's room before dinner. Pansy was already dressed; she was
always in advance of the time: it seemed to illustrate her pretty
patience and the graceful stillness with which she could sit and wait.
At present she was seated, in her fresh array, before the bed-room
fire; she had blown out her candles on the completion of her toilet, in
accordance with the economical habits in which she had been brought up
and which she was now more careful than ever to observe; so that
the room was lighted only by a couple of logs. The rooms in Palazzo
Roccanera were as spacious as they were numerous, and Pansy's virginal
bower was an immense chamber with a dark, heavily-timbered ceiling.
Its diminutive mistress, in the midst of it, appeared but a speck of
humanity, and as she got up, with quick deference, to welcome Isabel,
the latter was more than ever struck with her shy sincerity. Isabel
had a difficult task--the only thing was to perform it as simply as
possible. She felt bitter and angry, but she warned herself against
betraying this heat. She was afraid even of looking too grave, or at
least too stern; she was afraid of causing alarm. But Pansy seemed to
have guessed she had come more or less as a confessor; for after she
had moved the chair in which she had been sitting a little nearer to the
fire and Isabel had taken her place in it, she kneeled down on a
cushion in front of her, looking up and resting her clasped hands on her
stepmother's knees. What Isabel wished to do was to hear from her own
lips that her mind was not occupied with Lord Warburton; but if she
desired the assurance she felt herself by no means at liberty to provoke
it. The girl's father would have qualified this as rank treachery; and
indeed Isabel knew that if Pansy should display the smallest germ of
a disposition to encourage Lord Warburton her own duty was to hold her
tongue. It was difficult to interrogate without appearing to suggest;
Pansy's supreme simplicity, an innocence even more complete than Isabel
had yet judged it, gave to the most tentative enquiry something of the
effect of an admonition. As she knelt there in the vague firelight, with
her pretty dress dimly shining, her hands folded half in appeal and half
in submission, her soft eyes, raised and fixed, full of the seriousness
of the situation, she looked to Isabel like a childish martyr decked
out for sacrifice and scarcely presuming even to hope to avert it. When
Isabel said to her that she had never yet spoken to her of what might
have been going on in relation to her getting married, but that her
silence had not been indifference or ignorance, had only been the desire
to leave her at liberty, Pansy bent forward, raised her face nearer
and nearer, and with a little murmur which evidently expressed a deep
longing, answered that she had greatly wished her to speak and that she
begged her to advise her now.
"It's difficult for me to advise you," Isabel returned. "I don't know
how I can undertake that. That's for your father; you must get his
advice and, above all, you must act on it."
At this Pansy dropped her eyes; for a moment she said nothing. "I think
I should like your advice better than papa's," she presently remarked.
"That's not as it should be," said Isabel coldly. "I love you very much,
but your father loves you better."
"It isn't because you love me--it's because you're a lady," Pansy
answered with the air of saying something very reasonable. "A lady can
advise a young girl better than a man."
"I advise you then to pay the greatest respect to your father's wishes."
"Ah yes," said the child eagerly, "I must do that."
"But if I speak to you now about your getting married it's not for your
own sake, it's for mine," Isabel went on. "If I try to learn from you
what you expect, what you desire, it's only that I may act accordingly."
Pansy stared, and then very quickly, "Will you do everything I want?"
she asked.
"Before I say yes I must know what such things are."
Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wanted in life was to
marry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her and she had told him she would do so
if her papa would allow it. Now her papa wouldn't allow it.
"Very well then, it's impossible," Isabel pronounced.
"Yes, it's impossible," said Pansy without a sigh and with the same
extreme attention in her clear little face.
"You must think of something else then," Isabel went on; but Pansy,
sighing at this, told her that she had attempted that feat without the
least success.
"You think of those who think of you," she said with a faint smile. "I
know Mr. Rosier thinks of me."
"He ought not to," said Isabel loftily. "Your father has expressly
requested he shouldn't."
"He can't help it, because he knows I think of HIM."
"You shouldn't think of him. There's some excuse for him, perhaps; but
there's none for you."
"I wish you would try to find one," the girl exclaimed as if she were
praying to the Madonna.
"I should be very sorry to attempt it," said the Madonna with unusual
frigidity. "If you knew some one else was thinking of you, would you
think of him?"
"No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has the right."
"Ah, but I don't admit Mr. Rosier's right!" Isabel hypocritically cried.
Pansy only gazed at her, evidently much puzzled; and Isabel, taking
advantage of it, began to represent to her the wretched consequences of
disobeying her father. At this Pansy stopped her with the assurance that
she would never disobey him, would never marry without his consent. And
she announced, in the serenest, simplest tone, that, though she might
never marry Mr. Rosier, she would never cease to think of him. She
appeared to have accepted the idea of eternal singleness; but Isabel of
course was free to reflect that she had no conception of its meaning.
She was perfectly sincere; she was prepared to give up her lover. This
might seem an important step toward taking another, but for Pansy,
evidently, it failed to lead in that direction. She felt no bitterness
toward her father; there was no bitterness in her heart; there was only
the sweetness of fidelity to Edward Rosier, and a strange, exquisite
intimation that she could prove it better by remaining single than even
by marrying him.
"Your father would like you to make a better marriage," said Isabel.
"Mr. Rosier's fortune is not at all large."
"How do you mean better--if that would be good enough? And I have myself
so little money; why should I look for a fortune?"
"Your having so little is a reason for looking for more." With which
Isabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she felt as if her face
were hideously insincere. It was what she was doing for Osmond; it was
what one had to do for Osmond! Pansy's solemn eyes, fixed on her own,
almost embarrassed her; she was ashamed to think she had made so light
of the girl's preference.
"What should you like me to do?" her companion softly demanded.
The question was a terrible one, and Isabel took refuge in timorous
vagueness. "To remember all the pleasure it's in your power to give your
father."
"To marry some one else, you mean--if he should ask me?"
For a moment Isabel's answer caused itself to be waited for; then she
heard herself utter it in the stillness that Pansy's attention seemed to
make. "Yes--to marry some one else."
The child's eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed she was doubting
her sincerity, and the impression took force from her slowly getting
up from her cushion. She stood there a moment with her small hands
unclasped and then quavered out: "Well, I hope no one will ask me!"
"There has been a question of that. Some one else would have been ready
to ask you."
"I don't think he can have been ready," said Pansy.
"It would appear so if he had been sure he'd succeed."
"If he had been sure? Then he wasn't ready!"
Isabel thought this rather sharp; she also got up and stood a moment
looking into the fire. "Lord Warburton has shown you great attention,"
she resumed; "of course you know it's of him I speak." She found
herself, against her expectation, almost placed in the position of
justifying herself; which led her to introduce this nobleman more
crudely than she had intended.
"He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much. But if you mean
that he'll propose for me I think you're mistaken."
"Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely."
Pansy shook her head with a little wise smile. "Lord Warburton won't
propose simply to please papa."
"Your father would like you to encourage him," Isabel went on
mechanically.
"How can I encourage him?"
"I don't know. Your father must tell you that."
Pansy said nothing for a moment; she only continued to smile as if
she were in possession of a bright assurance. "There's no danger--no
danger!" she declared at last.
There was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicity in her
believing it, which conduced to Isabel's awkwardness. She felt accused
of dishonesty, and the idea was disgusting. To repair her self-respect
she was on the point of saying that Lord Warburton had let her know that
there was a danger. But she didn't; she only said--in her embarrassment
rather wide of the mark--that he surely had been most kind, most
friendly.
"Yes, he has been very kind," Pansy answered. "That's what I like him
for."
"Why then is the difficulty so great?"
"I've always felt sure of his knowing that I don't want--what did you
say I should do?--to encourage him. He knows I don't want to marry,
and he wants me to know that he therefore won't trouble me. That's the
meaning of his kindness. It's as if he said to me: 'I like you very
much, but if it doesn't please you I'll never say it again.' I
think that's very kind, very noble," Pansy went on with deepening
positiveness. "That is all we've said to each other. And he doesn't care
for me either. Ah no, there's no danger."
Isabel was touched with wonder at the depths of perception of which
this submissive little person was capable; she felt afraid of Pansy's
wisdom--began almost to retreat before it. "You must tell your father
that," she remarked reservedly.
"I think I'd rather not," Pansy unreservedly answered.
"You oughtn't to let him have false hopes."
"Perhaps not; but it will be good for me that he should. So long as he
believes that Lord Warburton intends anything of the kind you say, papa
won't propose any one else. And that will be an advantage for me," said
the child very lucidly.
There was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made her companion
draw a long breath. It relieved this friend of a heavy responsibility.
Pansy had a sufficient illumination of her own, and Isabel felt that
she herself just now had no light to spare from her small stock.
Nevertheless it still clung to her that she must be loyal to Osmond,
that she was on her honour in dealing with his daughter. Under the
influence of this sentiment she threw out another suggestion before she
retired--a suggestion with which it seemed to her that she should have
done her utmost.
"Your father takes for granted at least that you would like to marry a
nobleman."
Pansy stood in the open doorway; she had drawn back the curtain for
Isabel to pass. "I think Mr. Rosier looks like one!" she remarked very
gravely.
| In Chapter 43, Isabel guesses that Warburton may act or abstain from acting on the basis of her own desires: and it is this that makes her refuse to force him to do so. They exchange a look that is very significant for indicating how psychological motivation of two people with good intentions can play off of each other. The narrator tells us that Isabel sees the gleam of an idea in Warburton's eye that Isabel herself is uneasy. This is a very difficult construction: Isabel knows that Warburton is thinking about Isabel's thoughts and desires. The next sentence is attributed neither to Warburton, nor to Isabel - it is simply a statement that "not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal... an implication of increased nearness to herself" . It could either mean that Warburton is trying to prevent Isabel from knowing that he is acting all out of his love for Isabel, or it could mean that Isabel notices Warburton is trying to prevent her from knowing his true motivation. Two people with good intentions, in other words, want to act only when they understand other people's desires and motivations, rather than acting purely out of their own self-interest. This seems to be the version of morality that James is propagating: one must understand oneself within a network of social relations and amidst the motivations of others in order to act in a moral way. The conversation between Countess Gemini and Henrietta Stackpole is one of the few conversations we get between two characters of minor importance. It is comical that these two characters get along: Countess Gemini has been described as a frivolous fabulist, and Henrietta Stackpole is very straightforward and honest. Henrietta Stackpole represents the New World and the possibilities open to modern women, insofar as she has an occupation that enables her to travel, think, observe, and be financially independent. Countess Gemini represents the decadence of the Old World, having married for position and money, she is left without any real values. Ralph and Isabel's conversation in Chapter 45 is significant because it shows Isabel finally beginning to move about the cage which Osmond has built for her: she finally starts to assert her own idea of how one should behave in life, rather than following Osmond's conventional way. Convention dictates that a woman should not oppose her husband's will. Isabel here feels that a heavy obligation. However, she realizes that if she convinces Lord Warburton to propose marriage to Pansy, he will only be doing it out of his love for Isabel. In Isabel's conversation with Pansy, in Chapter 46 then, Isabel seems to realize what more concretely what her morality is: she believes that people should act only from their own ideas and desires, and do so in an open and honest way. | analysis |
Lord Warburton was not seen in Mrs. Osmond's drawing-room for several
days, and Isabel couldn't fail to observe that her husband said nothing
to her about having received a letter from him. She couldn't fail to
observe, either, that Osmond was in a state of expectancy and that,
though it was not agreeable to him to betray it, he thought their
distinguished friend kept him waiting quite too long. At the end of four
days he alluded to his absence.
"What has become of Warburton? What does he mean by treating one like a
tradesman with a bill?"
"I know nothing about him," Isabel said. "I saw him last Friday at the
German ball. He told me then that he meant to write to you."
"He has never written to me."
"So I supposed, from your not having told me."
"He's an odd fish," said Osmond comprehensively. And on Isabel's making
no rejoinder he went on to enquire whether it took his lordship five
days to indite a letter. "Does he form his words with such difficulty?"
"I don't know," Isabel was reduced to replying. "I've never had a letter
from him."
"Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one time in intimate
correspondence."
She answered that this had not been the case, and let the conversation
drop. On the morrow, however, coming into the drawing-room late in the
afternoon, her husband took it up again.
"When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing what did you
say to him?" he asked.
She just faltered. "I think I told him not to forget it.
"Did you believe there was a danger of that?"
"As you say, he's an odd fish."
"Apparently he has forgotten it," said Osmond. "Be so good as to remind
him."
"Should you like me to write to him?" she demanded.
"I've no objection whatever."
"You expect too much of me."
"Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you."
"I'm afraid I shall disappoint you," said Isabel.
"My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment."
"Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed myself!
If you really wish hands laid on Lord Warburton you must lay them
yourself."
For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then he said: "That
won't be easy, with you working against me."
Isabel started; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He had a way of
looking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if he were thinking of
her but scarcely saw her, which seemed to her to have a wonderfully
cruel intention. It appeared to recognise her as a disagreeable
necessity of thought, but to ignore her for the time as a presence.
That effect had never been so marked as now. "I think you accuse me of
something very base," she returned.
"I accuse you of not being trustworthy. If he doesn't after all come
forward it will be because you've kept him off. I don't know that it's
base: it is the kind of thing a woman always thinks she may do. I've no
doubt you've the finest ideas about it."
"I told you I would do what I could," she went on.
"Yes, that gained you time."
It came over her, after he had said this, that she had once thought him
beautiful. "How much you must want to make sure of him!" she exclaimed
in a moment.
She had no sooner spoken than she perceived the full reach of her
words, of which she had not been conscious in uttering them. They made
a comparison between Osmond and herself, recalled the fact that she had
once held this coveted treasure in her hand and felt herself rich
enough to let it fall. A momentary exultation took possession of her--a
horrible delight in having wounded him; for his face instantly told her
that none of the force of her exclamation was lost. He expressed nothing
otherwise, however; he only said quickly: "Yes, I want it immensely."
At this moment a servant came in to usher a visitor, and he was followed
the next by Lord Warburton, who received a visible check on seeing
Osmond. He looked rapidly from the master of the house to the mistress;
a movement that seemed to denote a reluctance to interrupt or even a
perception of ominous conditions. Then he advanced, with his English
address, in which a vague shyness seemed to offer itself as an element
of good-breeding; in which the only defect was a difficulty in achieving
transitions. Osmond was embarrassed; he found nothing to say; but Isabel
remarked, promptly enough, that they had been in the act of talking
about their visitor. Upon this her husband added that they hadn't known
what was become of him--they had been afraid he had gone away. "No,"
he explained, smiling and looking at Osmond; "I'm only on the point of
going." And then he mentioned that he found himself suddenly recalled
to England: he should start on the morrow or the day after. "I'm awfully
sorry to leave poor Touchett!" he ended by exclaiming.
For a moment neither of his companions spoke; Osmond only leaned back
in his chair, listening. Isabel didn't look at him; she could only fancy
how he looked. Her eyes were on their visitor's face, where they were
the more free to rest that those of his lordship carefully avoided them.
Yet Isabel was sure that had she met his glance she would have found it
expressive. "You had better take poor Touchett with you," she heard her
husband say, lightly enough, in a moment.
"He had better wait for warmer weather," Lord Warburton answered. "I
shouldn't advise him to travel just now."
He sat there a quarter of an hour, talking as if he might not soon
see them again--unless indeed they should come to England, a course
he strongly recommended. Why shouldn't they come to England in the
autumn?--that struck him as a very happy thought. It would give him such
pleasure to do what he could for them--to have them come and spend a
month with him. Osmond, by his own admission, had been to England but
once; which was an absurd state of things for a man of his leisure and
intelligence. It was just the country for him--he would be sure to get
on well there. Then Lord Warburton asked Isabel if she remembered what
a good time she had had there and if she didn't want to try it again.
Didn't she want to see Gardencourt once more? Gardencourt was really
very good. Touchett didn't take proper care of it, but it was the sort
of place you could hardly spoil by letting it alone. Why didn't they
come and pay Touchett a visit? He surely must have asked them. Hadn't
asked them? What an ill-mannered wretch!--and Lord Warburton promised to
give the master of Gardencourt a piece of his mind. Of course it was a
mere accident; he would be delighted to have them. Spending a month with
Touchett and a month with himself, and seeing all the rest of the
people they must know there, they really wouldn't find it half bad. Lord
Warburton added that it would amuse Miss Osmond as well, who had told
him that she had never been to England and whom he had assured it was a
country she deserved to see. Of course she didn't need to go to England
to be admired--that was her fate everywhere; but she would be an immense
success there, she certainly would, if that was any inducement. He asked
if she were not at home: couldn't he say good-bye? Not that he liked
good-byes--he always funked them. When he left England the other day he
hadn't said good-bye to a two-legged creature. He had had half a mind
to leave Rome without troubling Mrs. Osmond for a final interview. What
could be more dreary than final interviews? One never said the things
one wanted--one remembered them all an hour afterwards. On the other
hand one usually said a lot of things one shouldn't, simply from a sense
that one had to say something. Such a sense was upsetting; it muddled
one's wits. He had it at present, and that was the effect it produced
on him. If Mrs. Osmond didn't think he spoke as he ought she must set
it down to agitation; it was no light thing to part with Mrs. Osmond.
He was really very sorry to be going. He had thought of writing to her
instead of calling--but he would write to her at any rate, to tell her a
lot of things that would be sure to occur to him as soon as he had left
the house. They must think seriously about coming to Lockleigh.
If there was anything awkward in the conditions of his visit or in the
announcement of his departure it failed to come to the surface. Lord
Warburton talked about his agitation; but he showed it in no other
manner, and Isabel saw that since he had determined on a retreat he was
capable of executing it gallantly. She was very glad for him; she liked
him quite well enough to wish him to appear to carry a thing off. He
would do that on any occasion--not from impudence but simply from the
habit of success; and Isabel felt it out of her husband's power to
frustrate this faculty. A complex operation, as she sat there, went on
in her mind. On one side she listened to their visitor; said what was
proper to him; read, more or less, between the lines of what he said
himself; and wondered how he would have spoken if he had found her
alone. On the other she had a perfect consciousness of Osmond's emotion.
She felt almost sorry for him; he was condemned to the sharp pain of
loss without the relief of cursing. He had had a great hope, and now, as
he saw it vanish into smoke, he was obliged to sit and smile and twirl
his thumbs. Not that he troubled himself to smile very brightly; he
treated their friend on the whole to as vacant a countenance as so
clever a man could very well wear. It was indeed a part of Osmond's
cleverness that he could look consummately uncompromised. His present
appearance, however, was not a confession of disappointment; it was
simply a part of Osmond's habitual system, which was to be inexpressive
exactly in proportion as he was really intent. He had been intent on
this prize from the first; but he had never allowed his eagerness to
irradiate his refined face. He had treated his possible son-in-law as he
treated every one--with an air of being interested in him only for his
own advantage, not for any profit to a person already so generally, so
perfectly provided as Gilbert Osmond. He would give no sign now of an
inward rage which was the result of a vanished prospect of gain--not
the faintest nor subtlest. Isabel could be sure of that, if it was any
satisfaction to her. Strangely, very strangely, it was a satisfaction;
she wished Lord Warburton to triumph before her husband, and at the same
time she wished her husband to be very superior before Lord Warburton.
Osmond, in his way, was admirable; he had, like their visitor, the
advantage of an acquired habit. It was not that of succeeding, but it
was something almost as good--that of not attempting. As he leaned back
in his place, listening but vaguely to the other's friendly offers and
suppressed explanations--as if it were only proper to assume that they
were addressed essentially to his wife--he had at least (since so little
else was left him) the comfort of thinking how well he personally had
kept out of it, and how the air of indifference, which he was now able
to wear, had the added beauty of consistency. It was something to be
able to look as if the leave-taker's movements had no relation to his
own mind. The latter did well, certainly; but Osmond's performance was
in its very nature more finished. Lord Warburton's position was after
all an easy one; there was no reason in the world why he shouldn't leave
Rome. He had had beneficent inclinations, but they had stopped short
of fruition; he had never committed himself, and his honour was safe.
Osmond appeared to take but a moderate interest in the proposal that
they should go and stay with him and in his allusion to the success
Pansy might extract from their visit. He murmured a recognition, but
left Isabel to say that it was a matter requiring grave consideration.
Isabel, even while she made this remark, could see the great vista
which had suddenly opened out in her husband's mind, with Pansy's little
figure marching up the middle of it.
Lord Warburton had asked leave to bid good-bye to Pansy, but neither
Isabel nor Osmond had made any motion to send for her. He had the air of
giving out that his visit must be short; he sat on a small chair, as if
it were only for a moment, keeping his hat in his hand. But he stayed
and stayed; Isabel wondered what he was waiting for. She believed it
was not to see Pansy; she had an impression that on the whole he would
rather not see Pansy. It was of course to see herself alone--he had
something to say to her. Isabel had no great wish to hear it, for she
was afraid it would be an explanation, and she could perfectly dispense
with explanations. Osmond, however, presently got up, like a man of good
taste to whom it had occurred that so inveterate a visitor might wish
to say just the last word of all to the ladies. "I've a letter to write
before dinner," he said; "you must excuse me. I'll see if my daughter's
disengaged, and if she is she shall know you're here. Of course when
you come to Rome you'll always look us up. Mrs. Osmond will talk to you
about the English expedition: she decides all those things."
The nod with which, instead of a hand-shake, he wound up this little
speech was perhaps rather a meagre form of salutation; but on the whole
it was all the occasion demanded. Isabel reflected that after he
left the room Lord Warburton would have no pretext for saying, "Your
husband's very angry"; which would have been extremely disagreeable to
her. Nevertheless, if he had done so, she would have said: "Oh, don't be
anxious. He doesn't hate you: it's me that he hates!"
It was only when they had been left alone together that her friend
showed a certain vague awkwardness--sitting down in another chair,
handling two or three of the objects that were near him. "I hope he'll
make Miss Osmond come," he presently remarked. "I want very much to see
her."
"I'm glad it's the last time," said Isabel.
"So am I. She doesn't care for me."
"No, she doesn't care for you."
"I don't wonder at it," he returned. Then he added with inconsequence:
"You'll come to England, won't you?"
"I think we had better not."
"Ah, you owe me a visit. Don't you remember that you were to have come
to Lockleigh once, and you never did?"
"Everything's changed since then," said Isabel.
"Not changed for the worse, surely--as far as we're concerned. To see
you under my roof"--and he hung fire but an instant--"would be a great
satisfaction."
She had feared an explanation; but that was the only one that occurred.
They talked a little of Ralph, and in another moment Pansy came in,
already dressed for dinner and with a little red spot in either cheek.
She shook hands with Lord Warburton and stood looking up into his
face with a fixed smile--a smile that Isabel knew, though his lordship
probably never suspected it, to be near akin to a burst of tears.
"I'm going away," he said. "I want to bid you good-bye."
"Good-bye, Lord Warburton." Her voice perceptibly trembled.
"And I want to tell you how much I wish you may be very happy."
"Thank you, Lord Warburton," Pansy answered.
He lingered a moment and gave a glance at Isabel. "You ought to be very
happy--you've got a guardian angel."
"I'm sure I shall be happy," said Pansy in the tone of a person whose
certainties were always cheerful.
"Such a conviction as that will take you a great way. But if it should
ever fail you, remember--remember--" And her interlocutor stammered a
little. "Think of me sometimes, you know!" he said with a vague laugh.
Then he shook hands with Isabel in silence, and presently he was gone.
When he had left the room she expected an effusion of tears from her
stepdaughter; but Pansy in fact treated her to something very different.
"I think you ARE my guardian angel!" she exclaimed very sweetly.
Isabel shook her head. "I'm not an angel of any kind. I'm at the most
your good friend."
"You're a very good friend then--to have asked papa to be gentle with
me."
"I've asked your father nothing," said Isabel, wondering.
"He told me just now to come to the drawing-room, and then he gave me a
very kind kiss."
"Ah," said Isabel, "that was quite his own idea!"
She recognised the idea perfectly; it was very characteristic, and she
was to see a great deal more of it. Even with Pansy he couldn't put
himself the least in the wrong. They were dining out that day, and after
their dinner they went to another entertainment; so that it was not till
late in the evening that Isabel saw him alone. When Pansy kissed him
before going to bed he returned her embrace with even more than his
usual munificence, and Isabel wondered if he meant it as a hint that his
daughter had been injured by the machinations of her stepmother. It was
a partial expression, at any rate, of what he continued to expect of his
wife. She was about to follow Pansy, but he remarked that he wished she
would remain; he had something to say to her. Then he walked about the
drawing-room a little, while she stood waiting in her cloak.
"I don't understand what you wish to do," he said in a moment. "I should
like to know--so that I may know how to act."
"Just now I wish to go to bed. I'm very tired."
"Sit down and rest; I shall not keep you long. Not there--take a
comfortable place." And he arranged a multitude of cushions that were
scattered in picturesque disorder upon a vast divan. This was not,
however, where she seated herself; she dropped into the nearest chair.
The fire had gone out; the lights in the great room were few. She drew
her cloak about her; she felt mortally cold. "I think you're trying to
humiliate me," Osmond went on. "It's a most absurd undertaking."
"I haven't the least idea what you mean," she returned.
"You've played a very deep game; you've managed it beautifully."
"What is it that I've managed?"
"You've not quite settled it, however; we shall see him again." And he
stopped in front of her, with his hands in his pockets, looking down at
her thoughtfully, in his usual way, which seemed meant to let her know
that she was not an object, but only a rather disagreeable incident, of
thought.
"If you mean that Lord Warburton's under an obligation to come back
you're wrong," Isabel said. "He's under none whatever."
"That's just what I complain of. But when I say he'll come back I don't
mean he'll come from a sense of duty."
"There's nothing else to make him. I think he has quite exhausted Rome."
"Ah no, that's a shallow judgement. Rome's inexhaustible." And Osmond
began to walk about again. "However, about that perhaps there's no
hurry," he added. "It's rather a good idea of his that we should go
to England. If it were not for the fear of finding your cousin there I
think I should try to persuade you."
"It may be that you'll not find my cousin," said Isabel.
"I should like to be sure of it. However, I shall be as sure as
possible. At the same time I should like to see his house, that you told
me so much about at one time: what do you call it?--Gardencourt. It must
be a charming thing. And then, you know, I've a devotion to the memory
of your uncle: you made me take a great fancy to him. I should like to
see where he lived and died. That indeed is a detail. Your friend was
right. Pansy ought to see England."
"I've no doubt she would enjoy it," said Isabel.
"But that's a long time hence; next autumn's far off," Osmond continued;
"and meantime there are things that more nearly interest us. Do you
think me so very proud?" he suddenly asked.
"I think you very strange."
"You don't understand me."
"No, not even when you insult me."
"I don't insult you; I'm incapable of it. I merely speak of certain
facts, and if the allusion's an injury to you the fault's not mine.
It's surely a fact that you have kept all this matter quite in your own
hands."
"Are you going back to Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked. "I'm very tired of
his name."
"You shall hear it again before we've done with it."
She had spoken of his insulting her, but it suddenly seemed to her that
this ceased to be a pain. He was going down--down; the vision of such a
fall made her almost giddy: that was the only pain. He was too strange,
too different; he didn't touch her. Still, the working of his morbid
passion was extraordinary, and she felt a rising curiosity to know in
what light he saw himself justified. "I might say to you that I judge
you've nothing to say to me that's worth hearing," she returned in a
moment. "But I should perhaps be wrong. There's a thing that would be
worth my hearing--to know in the plainest words of what it is you accuse
me."
"Of having prevented Pansy's marriage to Warburton. Are those words
plain enough?"
"On the contrary, I took a great interest in it. I told you so; and when
you told me that you counted on me--that I think was what you said--I
accepted the obligation. I was a fool to do so, but I did it."
"You pretended to do it, and you even pretended reluctance to make me
more willing to trust you. Then you began to use your ingenuity to get
him out of the way."
"I think I see what you mean," said Isabel.
"Where's the letter you told me he had written me?" her husband
demanded.
"I haven't the least idea; I haven't asked him."
"You stopped it on the way," said Osmond.
Isabel slowly got up; standing there in her white cloak, which covered
her to her feet, she might have represented the angel of disdain, first
cousin to that of pity. "Oh, Gilbert, for a man who was so fine--!" she
exclaimed in a long murmur.
"I was never so fine as you. You've done everything you wanted. You've
got him out of the way without appearing to do so, and you've placed
me in the position in which you wished to see me--that of a man who has
tried to marry his daughter to a lord, but has grotesquely failed."
"Pansy doesn't care for him. She's very glad he's gone," Isabel said.
"That has nothing to do with the matter."
"And he doesn't care for Pansy."
"That won't do; you told me he did. I don't know why you wanted this
particular satisfaction," Osmond continued; "you might have taken some
other. It doesn't seem to me that I've been presumptuous--that I have
taken too much for granted. I've been very modest about it, very quiet.
The idea didn't originate with me. He began to show that he liked her
before I ever thought of it. I left it all to you."
"Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you must attend
to such things yourself."
He looked at her a moment; then he turned away. "I thought you were very
fond of my daughter."
"I've never been more so than to-day."
"Your affection is attended with immense limitations. However, that
perhaps is natural."
"Is this all you wished to say to me?" Isabel asked, taking a candle
that stood on one of the tables.
"Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?"
"I don't think that on the whole you're disappointed. You've had another
opportunity to try to stupefy me."
"It's not that. It's proved that Pansy can aim high."
"Poor little Pansy!" said Isabel as she turned away with her candle.
| Osmond begins to think it is odd that Lord Warburton has not yet written to him to ask for Pansy's hand in marriage. Osmond asks Isabel to remind Lord Warburton to write. Isabel tells him to do so himself. Osmond retorts that Isabel is working against him. Isabel begins to tremble. She notes, "How much you must want to make sure of him. She feels delight at having wounded him. Lord Warburton suddenly arrives. He announces that he will be leaving soon, and he speaks as if he will not be seeing them for quite some time more. A complex operation occurs in Isabel's mind as Warburton gallantly departs. She listens to Warburton, reading between the lines of what he said. On the other side of her mind, she knows Osmond's emotions. She almost feels sorry for him as his hopes vanish. But she also sees how proportionate his inexpressiveness is to his indifference. As his hopes vanish, she sees how he had the comfort of thinking how well he had kept out of the whole affair, as if he had been indifferent the entire time. Lord Warburton begins to stay and chat for an awkwardly long time. Osmond excuses himself. Pansy is sent into the room, and Warburton tells her that Pansy has a "guardian angel". He then retreats. Pansy tells Isabel that she is her guardian angel. Pansy believes that Isabel has asked Osmond to be gentle with her, but Isabel recognizes that Osmond is only gentle because he can never be put in the wrong with his daughter. When Isabel is about to go to bed, Osmond calls her into the drawing room. He asks what she means to do. She responds that she has no intentions. Osmond believes she is trying to humiliate him, playing a very deep game. Isabel tells him that Pansy did not like Lord Warburton, and Osmond simply dismisses this as an unimportant detail | summary |
Lord Warburton was not seen in Mrs. Osmond's drawing-room for several
days, and Isabel couldn't fail to observe that her husband said nothing
to her about having received a letter from him. She couldn't fail to
observe, either, that Osmond was in a state of expectancy and that,
though it was not agreeable to him to betray it, he thought their
distinguished friend kept him waiting quite too long. At the end of four
days he alluded to his absence.
"What has become of Warburton? What does he mean by treating one like a
tradesman with a bill?"
"I know nothing about him," Isabel said. "I saw him last Friday at the
German ball. He told me then that he meant to write to you."
"He has never written to me."
"So I supposed, from your not having told me."
"He's an odd fish," said Osmond comprehensively. And on Isabel's making
no rejoinder he went on to enquire whether it took his lordship five
days to indite a letter. "Does he form his words with such difficulty?"
"I don't know," Isabel was reduced to replying. "I've never had a letter
from him."
"Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one time in intimate
correspondence."
She answered that this had not been the case, and let the conversation
drop. On the morrow, however, coming into the drawing-room late in the
afternoon, her husband took it up again.
"When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing what did you
say to him?" he asked.
She just faltered. "I think I told him not to forget it.
"Did you believe there was a danger of that?"
"As you say, he's an odd fish."
"Apparently he has forgotten it," said Osmond. "Be so good as to remind
him."
"Should you like me to write to him?" she demanded.
"I've no objection whatever."
"You expect too much of me."
"Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you."
"I'm afraid I shall disappoint you," said Isabel.
"My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment."
"Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed myself!
If you really wish hands laid on Lord Warburton you must lay them
yourself."
For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then he said: "That
won't be easy, with you working against me."
Isabel started; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He had a way of
looking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if he were thinking of
her but scarcely saw her, which seemed to her to have a wonderfully
cruel intention. It appeared to recognise her as a disagreeable
necessity of thought, but to ignore her for the time as a presence.
That effect had never been so marked as now. "I think you accuse me of
something very base," she returned.
"I accuse you of not being trustworthy. If he doesn't after all come
forward it will be because you've kept him off. I don't know that it's
base: it is the kind of thing a woman always thinks she may do. I've no
doubt you've the finest ideas about it."
"I told you I would do what I could," she went on.
"Yes, that gained you time."
It came over her, after he had said this, that she had once thought him
beautiful. "How much you must want to make sure of him!" she exclaimed
in a moment.
She had no sooner spoken than she perceived the full reach of her
words, of which she had not been conscious in uttering them. They made
a comparison between Osmond and herself, recalled the fact that she had
once held this coveted treasure in her hand and felt herself rich
enough to let it fall. A momentary exultation took possession of her--a
horrible delight in having wounded him; for his face instantly told her
that none of the force of her exclamation was lost. He expressed nothing
otherwise, however; he only said quickly: "Yes, I want it immensely."
At this moment a servant came in to usher a visitor, and he was followed
the next by Lord Warburton, who received a visible check on seeing
Osmond. He looked rapidly from the master of the house to the mistress;
a movement that seemed to denote a reluctance to interrupt or even a
perception of ominous conditions. Then he advanced, with his English
address, in which a vague shyness seemed to offer itself as an element
of good-breeding; in which the only defect was a difficulty in achieving
transitions. Osmond was embarrassed; he found nothing to say; but Isabel
remarked, promptly enough, that they had been in the act of talking
about their visitor. Upon this her husband added that they hadn't known
what was become of him--they had been afraid he had gone away. "No,"
he explained, smiling and looking at Osmond; "I'm only on the point of
going." And then he mentioned that he found himself suddenly recalled
to England: he should start on the morrow or the day after. "I'm awfully
sorry to leave poor Touchett!" he ended by exclaiming.
For a moment neither of his companions spoke; Osmond only leaned back
in his chair, listening. Isabel didn't look at him; she could only fancy
how he looked. Her eyes were on their visitor's face, where they were
the more free to rest that those of his lordship carefully avoided them.
Yet Isabel was sure that had she met his glance she would have found it
expressive. "You had better take poor Touchett with you," she heard her
husband say, lightly enough, in a moment.
"He had better wait for warmer weather," Lord Warburton answered. "I
shouldn't advise him to travel just now."
He sat there a quarter of an hour, talking as if he might not soon
see them again--unless indeed they should come to England, a course
he strongly recommended. Why shouldn't they come to England in the
autumn?--that struck him as a very happy thought. It would give him such
pleasure to do what he could for them--to have them come and spend a
month with him. Osmond, by his own admission, had been to England but
once; which was an absurd state of things for a man of his leisure and
intelligence. It was just the country for him--he would be sure to get
on well there. Then Lord Warburton asked Isabel if she remembered what
a good time she had had there and if she didn't want to try it again.
Didn't she want to see Gardencourt once more? Gardencourt was really
very good. Touchett didn't take proper care of it, but it was the sort
of place you could hardly spoil by letting it alone. Why didn't they
come and pay Touchett a visit? He surely must have asked them. Hadn't
asked them? What an ill-mannered wretch!--and Lord Warburton promised to
give the master of Gardencourt a piece of his mind. Of course it was a
mere accident; he would be delighted to have them. Spending a month with
Touchett and a month with himself, and seeing all the rest of the
people they must know there, they really wouldn't find it half bad. Lord
Warburton added that it would amuse Miss Osmond as well, who had told
him that she had never been to England and whom he had assured it was a
country she deserved to see. Of course she didn't need to go to England
to be admired--that was her fate everywhere; but she would be an immense
success there, she certainly would, if that was any inducement. He asked
if she were not at home: couldn't he say good-bye? Not that he liked
good-byes--he always funked them. When he left England the other day he
hadn't said good-bye to a two-legged creature. He had had half a mind
to leave Rome without troubling Mrs. Osmond for a final interview. What
could be more dreary than final interviews? One never said the things
one wanted--one remembered them all an hour afterwards. On the other
hand one usually said a lot of things one shouldn't, simply from a sense
that one had to say something. Such a sense was upsetting; it muddled
one's wits. He had it at present, and that was the effect it produced
on him. If Mrs. Osmond didn't think he spoke as he ought she must set
it down to agitation; it was no light thing to part with Mrs. Osmond.
He was really very sorry to be going. He had thought of writing to her
instead of calling--but he would write to her at any rate, to tell her a
lot of things that would be sure to occur to him as soon as he had left
the house. They must think seriously about coming to Lockleigh.
If there was anything awkward in the conditions of his visit or in the
announcement of his departure it failed to come to the surface. Lord
Warburton talked about his agitation; but he showed it in no other
manner, and Isabel saw that since he had determined on a retreat he was
capable of executing it gallantly. She was very glad for him; she liked
him quite well enough to wish him to appear to carry a thing off. He
would do that on any occasion--not from impudence but simply from the
habit of success; and Isabel felt it out of her husband's power to
frustrate this faculty. A complex operation, as she sat there, went on
in her mind. On one side she listened to their visitor; said what was
proper to him; read, more or less, between the lines of what he said
himself; and wondered how he would have spoken if he had found her
alone. On the other she had a perfect consciousness of Osmond's emotion.
She felt almost sorry for him; he was condemned to the sharp pain of
loss without the relief of cursing. He had had a great hope, and now, as
he saw it vanish into smoke, he was obliged to sit and smile and twirl
his thumbs. Not that he troubled himself to smile very brightly; he
treated their friend on the whole to as vacant a countenance as so
clever a man could very well wear. It was indeed a part of Osmond's
cleverness that he could look consummately uncompromised. His present
appearance, however, was not a confession of disappointment; it was
simply a part of Osmond's habitual system, which was to be inexpressive
exactly in proportion as he was really intent. He had been intent on
this prize from the first; but he had never allowed his eagerness to
irradiate his refined face. He had treated his possible son-in-law as he
treated every one--with an air of being interested in him only for his
own advantage, not for any profit to a person already so generally, so
perfectly provided as Gilbert Osmond. He would give no sign now of an
inward rage which was the result of a vanished prospect of gain--not
the faintest nor subtlest. Isabel could be sure of that, if it was any
satisfaction to her. Strangely, very strangely, it was a satisfaction;
she wished Lord Warburton to triumph before her husband, and at the same
time she wished her husband to be very superior before Lord Warburton.
Osmond, in his way, was admirable; he had, like their visitor, the
advantage of an acquired habit. It was not that of succeeding, but it
was something almost as good--that of not attempting. As he leaned back
in his place, listening but vaguely to the other's friendly offers and
suppressed explanations--as if it were only proper to assume that they
were addressed essentially to his wife--he had at least (since so little
else was left him) the comfort of thinking how well he personally had
kept out of it, and how the air of indifference, which he was now able
to wear, had the added beauty of consistency. It was something to be
able to look as if the leave-taker's movements had no relation to his
own mind. The latter did well, certainly; but Osmond's performance was
in its very nature more finished. Lord Warburton's position was after
all an easy one; there was no reason in the world why he shouldn't leave
Rome. He had had beneficent inclinations, but they had stopped short
of fruition; he had never committed himself, and his honour was safe.
Osmond appeared to take but a moderate interest in the proposal that
they should go and stay with him and in his allusion to the success
Pansy might extract from their visit. He murmured a recognition, but
left Isabel to say that it was a matter requiring grave consideration.
Isabel, even while she made this remark, could see the great vista
which had suddenly opened out in her husband's mind, with Pansy's little
figure marching up the middle of it.
Lord Warburton had asked leave to bid good-bye to Pansy, but neither
Isabel nor Osmond had made any motion to send for her. He had the air of
giving out that his visit must be short; he sat on a small chair, as if
it were only for a moment, keeping his hat in his hand. But he stayed
and stayed; Isabel wondered what he was waiting for. She believed it
was not to see Pansy; she had an impression that on the whole he would
rather not see Pansy. It was of course to see herself alone--he had
something to say to her. Isabel had no great wish to hear it, for she
was afraid it would be an explanation, and she could perfectly dispense
with explanations. Osmond, however, presently got up, like a man of good
taste to whom it had occurred that so inveterate a visitor might wish
to say just the last word of all to the ladies. "I've a letter to write
before dinner," he said; "you must excuse me. I'll see if my daughter's
disengaged, and if she is she shall know you're here. Of course when
you come to Rome you'll always look us up. Mrs. Osmond will talk to you
about the English expedition: she decides all those things."
The nod with which, instead of a hand-shake, he wound up this little
speech was perhaps rather a meagre form of salutation; but on the whole
it was all the occasion demanded. Isabel reflected that after he
left the room Lord Warburton would have no pretext for saying, "Your
husband's very angry"; which would have been extremely disagreeable to
her. Nevertheless, if he had done so, she would have said: "Oh, don't be
anxious. He doesn't hate you: it's me that he hates!"
It was only when they had been left alone together that her friend
showed a certain vague awkwardness--sitting down in another chair,
handling two or three of the objects that were near him. "I hope he'll
make Miss Osmond come," he presently remarked. "I want very much to see
her."
"I'm glad it's the last time," said Isabel.
"So am I. She doesn't care for me."
"No, she doesn't care for you."
"I don't wonder at it," he returned. Then he added with inconsequence:
"You'll come to England, won't you?"
"I think we had better not."
"Ah, you owe me a visit. Don't you remember that you were to have come
to Lockleigh once, and you never did?"
"Everything's changed since then," said Isabel.
"Not changed for the worse, surely--as far as we're concerned. To see
you under my roof"--and he hung fire but an instant--"would be a great
satisfaction."
She had feared an explanation; but that was the only one that occurred.
They talked a little of Ralph, and in another moment Pansy came in,
already dressed for dinner and with a little red spot in either cheek.
She shook hands with Lord Warburton and stood looking up into his
face with a fixed smile--a smile that Isabel knew, though his lordship
probably never suspected it, to be near akin to a burst of tears.
"I'm going away," he said. "I want to bid you good-bye."
"Good-bye, Lord Warburton." Her voice perceptibly trembled.
"And I want to tell you how much I wish you may be very happy."
"Thank you, Lord Warburton," Pansy answered.
He lingered a moment and gave a glance at Isabel. "You ought to be very
happy--you've got a guardian angel."
"I'm sure I shall be happy," said Pansy in the tone of a person whose
certainties were always cheerful.
"Such a conviction as that will take you a great way. But if it should
ever fail you, remember--remember--" And her interlocutor stammered a
little. "Think of me sometimes, you know!" he said with a vague laugh.
Then he shook hands with Isabel in silence, and presently he was gone.
When he had left the room she expected an effusion of tears from her
stepdaughter; but Pansy in fact treated her to something very different.
"I think you ARE my guardian angel!" she exclaimed very sweetly.
Isabel shook her head. "I'm not an angel of any kind. I'm at the most
your good friend."
"You're a very good friend then--to have asked papa to be gentle with
me."
"I've asked your father nothing," said Isabel, wondering.
"He told me just now to come to the drawing-room, and then he gave me a
very kind kiss."
"Ah," said Isabel, "that was quite his own idea!"
She recognised the idea perfectly; it was very characteristic, and she
was to see a great deal more of it. Even with Pansy he couldn't put
himself the least in the wrong. They were dining out that day, and after
their dinner they went to another entertainment; so that it was not till
late in the evening that Isabel saw him alone. When Pansy kissed him
before going to bed he returned her embrace with even more than his
usual munificence, and Isabel wondered if he meant it as a hint that his
daughter had been injured by the machinations of her stepmother. It was
a partial expression, at any rate, of what he continued to expect of his
wife. She was about to follow Pansy, but he remarked that he wished she
would remain; he had something to say to her. Then he walked about the
drawing-room a little, while she stood waiting in her cloak.
"I don't understand what you wish to do," he said in a moment. "I should
like to know--so that I may know how to act."
"Just now I wish to go to bed. I'm very tired."
"Sit down and rest; I shall not keep you long. Not there--take a
comfortable place." And he arranged a multitude of cushions that were
scattered in picturesque disorder upon a vast divan. This was not,
however, where she seated herself; she dropped into the nearest chair.
The fire had gone out; the lights in the great room were few. She drew
her cloak about her; she felt mortally cold. "I think you're trying to
humiliate me," Osmond went on. "It's a most absurd undertaking."
"I haven't the least idea what you mean," she returned.
"You've played a very deep game; you've managed it beautifully."
"What is it that I've managed?"
"You've not quite settled it, however; we shall see him again." And he
stopped in front of her, with his hands in his pockets, looking down at
her thoughtfully, in his usual way, which seemed meant to let her know
that she was not an object, but only a rather disagreeable incident, of
thought.
"If you mean that Lord Warburton's under an obligation to come back
you're wrong," Isabel said. "He's under none whatever."
"That's just what I complain of. But when I say he'll come back I don't
mean he'll come from a sense of duty."
"There's nothing else to make him. I think he has quite exhausted Rome."
"Ah no, that's a shallow judgement. Rome's inexhaustible." And Osmond
began to walk about again. "However, about that perhaps there's no
hurry," he added. "It's rather a good idea of his that we should go
to England. If it were not for the fear of finding your cousin there I
think I should try to persuade you."
"It may be that you'll not find my cousin," said Isabel.
"I should like to be sure of it. However, I shall be as sure as
possible. At the same time I should like to see his house, that you told
me so much about at one time: what do you call it?--Gardencourt. It must
be a charming thing. And then, you know, I've a devotion to the memory
of your uncle: you made me take a great fancy to him. I should like to
see where he lived and died. That indeed is a detail. Your friend was
right. Pansy ought to see England."
"I've no doubt she would enjoy it," said Isabel.
"But that's a long time hence; next autumn's far off," Osmond continued;
"and meantime there are things that more nearly interest us. Do you
think me so very proud?" he suddenly asked.
"I think you very strange."
"You don't understand me."
"No, not even when you insult me."
"I don't insult you; I'm incapable of it. I merely speak of certain
facts, and if the allusion's an injury to you the fault's not mine.
It's surely a fact that you have kept all this matter quite in your own
hands."
"Are you going back to Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked. "I'm very tired of
his name."
"You shall hear it again before we've done with it."
She had spoken of his insulting her, but it suddenly seemed to her that
this ceased to be a pain. He was going down--down; the vision of such a
fall made her almost giddy: that was the only pain. He was too strange,
too different; he didn't touch her. Still, the working of his morbid
passion was extraordinary, and she felt a rising curiosity to know in
what light he saw himself justified. "I might say to you that I judge
you've nothing to say to me that's worth hearing," she returned in a
moment. "But I should perhaps be wrong. There's a thing that would be
worth my hearing--to know in the plainest words of what it is you accuse
me."
"Of having prevented Pansy's marriage to Warburton. Are those words
plain enough?"
"On the contrary, I took a great interest in it. I told you so; and when
you told me that you counted on me--that I think was what you said--I
accepted the obligation. I was a fool to do so, but I did it."
"You pretended to do it, and you even pretended reluctance to make me
more willing to trust you. Then you began to use your ingenuity to get
him out of the way."
"I think I see what you mean," said Isabel.
"Where's the letter you told me he had written me?" her husband
demanded.
"I haven't the least idea; I haven't asked him."
"You stopped it on the way," said Osmond.
Isabel slowly got up; standing there in her white cloak, which covered
her to her feet, she might have represented the angel of disdain, first
cousin to that of pity. "Oh, Gilbert, for a man who was so fine--!" she
exclaimed in a long murmur.
"I was never so fine as you. You've done everything you wanted. You've
got him out of the way without appearing to do so, and you've placed
me in the position in which you wished to see me--that of a man who has
tried to marry his daughter to a lord, but has grotesquely failed."
"Pansy doesn't care for him. She's very glad he's gone," Isabel said.
"That has nothing to do with the matter."
"And he doesn't care for Pansy."
"That won't do; you told me he did. I don't know why you wanted this
particular satisfaction," Osmond continued; "you might have taken some
other. It doesn't seem to me that I've been presumptuous--that I have
taken too much for granted. I've been very modest about it, very quiet.
The idea didn't originate with me. He began to show that he liked her
before I ever thought of it. I left it all to you."
"Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you must attend
to such things yourself."
He looked at her a moment; then he turned away. "I thought you were very
fond of my daughter."
"I've never been more so than to-day."
"Your affection is attended with immense limitations. However, that
perhaps is natural."
"Is this all you wished to say to me?" Isabel asked, taking a candle
that stood on one of the tables.
"Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?"
"I don't think that on the whole you're disappointed. You've had another
opportunity to try to stupefy me."
"It's not that. It's proved that Pansy can aim high."
"Poor little Pansy!" said Isabel as she turned away with her candle.
| Isabel's conversation with Osmond declares her intention not to help him in his quest to marry Pansy to Lord Warburton -- he accuses her then of taking a direct action against him. This is the beginning of an open confrontation with her husband that she has never before had, and which she had feared at the beginning of Chapter 45 would occur in reference to Ralph. It is a demonstration of a kind of psychological violence that people can do to each other by acting against one another's interests, or ignoring each other's desires. Osmond shows his own limited perspective when he refuses to acknowledge Pansy's own desires as even factoring into her life: he simply believes she should follow convention and try to ambitiously climb as high in society as possible through marriage. Isabel's response to Henrietta's suggestion that she simply leave Osmond implies that Isabel believes in a certain moral standard for her own behavior. Unlike being tied to conventionality, like Osmond's understanding of marriage, Isabel takes responsibility for her actions, believing that she freely made her choice to be with Osmond and that she ought not to hypocritically act in ways contradicting the oath she made. Robert Pippin has understood Isabel to be one of Henry James' best moral heroines, who is asking the question of how she can morally assert her own freedom in life - how she can act independently, taking responsibility for her own actions. She is faced with the modern problem of decaying social relations that are empty formal conventions with no real moral values. She is faced with a problem of meaning that is unstable because nobody shares common meanings. Gilbert Osmond for example sees marriage as a financial transaction, but Isabel marries for her own ideas. Her assertion to Henrietta that she must adhere to the consequences of her actions shows Isabel's commitment to keeping her actions consistent, even in the realization that they are isolating. | analysis |
It was from Henrietta Stackpole that she learned how Caspar Goodwood had
come to Rome; an event that took place three days after Lord Warburton's
departure. This latter fact had been preceded by an incident of some
importance to Isabel--the temporary absence, once again, of Madame
Merle, who had gone to Naples to stay with a friend, the happy possessor
of a villa at Posilippo. Madame Merle had ceased to minister to Isabel's
happiness, who found herself wondering whether the most discreet of
women might not also by chance be the most dangerous. Sometimes, at
night, she had strange visions; she seemed to see her husband and her
friend--his friend--in dim, indistinguishable combination. It seemed to
her that she had not done with her; this lady had something in reserve.
Isabel's imagination applied itself actively to this elusive point, but
every now and then it was checked by a nameless dread, so that when
the charming woman was away from Rome she had almost a consciousness
of respite. She had already learned from Miss Stackpole that Caspar
Goodwood was in Europe, Henrietta having written to make it known to
her immediately after meeting him in Paris. He himself never wrote to
Isabel, and though he was in Europe she thought it very possible he
might not desire to see her. Their last interview, before her marriage,
had had quite the character of a complete rupture; if she remembered
rightly he had said he wished to take his last look at her. Since then
he had been the most discordant survival of her earlier time--the only
one in fact with which a permanent pain was associated. He had left her
that morning with a sense of the most superfluous of shocks: it was like
a collision between vessels in broad daylight. There had been no mist,
no hidden current to excuse it, and she herself had only wished to steer
wide. He had bumped against her prow, however, while her hand was on the
tiller, and--to complete the metaphor--had given the lighter vessel a
strain which still occasionally betrayed itself in a faint creaking. It
had been horrid to see him, because he represented the only serious harm
that (to her belief) she had ever done in the world: he was the only
person with an unsatisfied claim on her. She had made him unhappy, she
couldn't help it; and his unhappiness was a grim reality. She had cried
with rage, after he had left her, at--she hardly knew what: she tried to
think it had been at his want of consideration. He had come to her with
his unhappiness when her own bliss was so perfect; he had done his best
to darken the brightness of those pure rays. He had not been violent,
and yet there had been a violence in the impression. There had been a
violence at any rate in something somewhere; perhaps it was only in her
own fit of weeping and in that after-sense of the same which had lasted
three or four days.
The effect of his final appeal had in short faded away, and all the
first year of her marriage he had dropped out of her books. He was a
thankless subject of reference; it was disagreeable to have to think
of a person who was sore and sombre about you and whom you could yet do
nothing to relieve. It would have been different if she had been able to
doubt, even a little, of his unreconciled state, as she doubted of Lord
Warburton's; unfortunately it was beyond question, and this aggressive,
uncompromising look of it was just what made it unattractive. She could
never say to herself that here was a sufferer who had compensations, as
she was able to say in the case of her English suitor. She had no faith
in Mr. Goodwood's compensations and no esteem for them. A cotton factory
was not a compensation for anything--least of all for having failed
to marry Isabel Archer. And yet, beyond that, she hardly knew what
he had--save of course his intrinsic qualities. Oh, he was intrinsic
enough; she never thought of his even looking for artificial aids. If
he extended his business--that, to the best of her belief, was the
only form exertion could take with him--it would be because it was an
enterprising thing, or good for the business; not in the least because
he might hope it would overlay the past. This gave his figure a kind of
bareness and bleakness which made the accident of meeting it in memory
or in apprehension a peculiar concussion; it was deficient in the social
drapery commonly muffling, in an overcivilized age, the sharpness of
human contacts. His perfect silence, moreover, the fact that she never
heard from him and very seldom heard any mention of him, deepened this
impression of his loneliness. She asked Lily for news of him, from
time to time; but Lily knew nothing of Boston--her imagination was
all bounded on the east by Madison Avenue. As time went on Isabel had
thought of him oftener, and with fewer restrictions; she had had more
than once the idea of writing to him. She had never told her husband
about him--never let Osmond know of his visits to her in Florence; a
reserve not dictated in the early period by a want of confidence
in Osmond, but simply by the consideration that the young man's
disappointment was not her secret but his own. It would be wrong of her,
she had believed, to convey it to another, and Mr. Goodwood's affairs
could have, after all, little interest for Gilbert. When it had come
to the point she had never written to him; it seemed to her that,
considering his grievance, the least she could do was to let him alone.
Nevertheless she would have been glad to be in some way nearer to him.
It was not that it ever occurred to her that she might have married him;
even after the consequences of her actual union had grown vivid to her
that particular reflection, though she indulged in so many, had not had
the assurance to present itself. But on finding herself in trouble he
had become a member of that circle of things with which she wished to
set herself right. I have mentioned how passionately she needed to feel
that her unhappiness should not have come to her through her own fault.
She had no near prospect of dying, and yet she wished to make her peace
with the world--to put her spiritual affairs in order. It came back to
her from time to time that there was an account still to be settled
with Caspar, and she saw herself disposed or able to settle it to-day
on terms easier for him than ever before. Still, when she learned he was
coming to Rome she felt all afraid; it would be more disagreeable for
him than for any one else to make out--since he WOULD make it out, as
over a falsified balance-sheet or something of that sort--the intimate
disarray of her affairs. Deep in her breast she believed that he had
invested his all in her happiness, while the others had invested only
a part. He was one more person from whom she should have to conceal her
stress. She was reassured, however, after he arrived in Rome, for he
spent several days without coming to see her.
Henrietta Stackpole, it may well be imagined, was more punctual, and
Isabel was largely favoured with the society of her friend. She threw
herself into it, for now that she had made such a point of keeping
her conscience clear, that was one way of proving she had not been
superficial--the more so as the years, in their flight, had rather
enriched than blighted those peculiarities which had been humorously
criticised by persons less interested than Isabel, and which were still
marked enough to give loyalty a spice of heroism. Henrietta was as
keen and quick and fresh as ever, and as neat and bright and fair. Her
remarkably open eyes, lighted like great glazed railway-stations, had
put up no shutters; her attire had lost none of its crispness, her
opinions none of their national reference. She was by no means quite
unchanged, however it struck Isabel she had grown vague. Of old she had
never been vague; though undertaking many enquiries at once, she had
managed to be entire and pointed about each. She had a reason for
everything she did; she fairly bristled with motives. Formerly, when
she came to Europe it was because she wished to see it, but now, having
already seen it, she had no such excuse. She didn't for a moment pretend
that the desire to examine decaying civilisations had anything to do
with her present enterprise; her journey was rather an expression of her
independence of the old world than of a sense of further obligations to
it. "It's nothing to come to Europe," she said to Isabel; "it doesn't
seem to me one needs so many reasons for that. It is something to stay
at home; this is much more important." It was not therefore with a sense
of doing anything very important that she treated herself to another
pilgrimage to Rome; she had seen the place before and carefully
inspected it; her present act was simply a sign of familiarity, of her
knowing all about it, of her having as good a right as any one else to
be there. This was all very well, and Henrietta was restless; she had a
perfect right to be restless too, if one came to that. But she had after
all a better reason for coming to Rome than that she cared for it so
little. Her friend easily recognised it, and with it the worth of the
other's fidelity. She had crossed the stormy ocean in midwinter because
she had guessed that Isabel was sad. Henrietta guessed a great deal, but
she had never guessed so happily as that. Isabel's satisfactions just
now were few, but even if they had been more numerous there would still
have been something of individual joy in her sense of being justified
in having always thought highly of Henrietta. She had made large
concessions with regard to her, and had yet insisted that, with all
abatements, she was very valuable. It was not her own triumph, however,
that she found good; it was simply the relief of confessing to this
confidant, the first person to whom she had owned it, that she was not
in the least at her ease. Henrietta had herself approached this point
with the smallest possible delay, and had accused her to her face of
being wretched. She was a woman, she was a sister; she was not Ralph,
nor Lord Warburton, nor Caspar Goodwood, and Isabel could speak.
"Yes, I'm wretched," she said very mildly. She hated to hear herself say
it; she tried to say it as judicially as possible.
"What does he do to you?" Henrietta asked, frowning as if she were
enquiring into the operations of a quack doctor.
"He does nothing. But he doesn't like me."
"He's very hard to please!" cried Miss Stackpole. "Why don't you leave
him?"
"I can't change that way," Isabel said.
"Why not, I should like to know? You won't confess that you've made a
mistake. You're too proud."
"I don't know whether I'm too proud. But I can't publish my mistake. I
don't think that's decent. I'd much rather die."
"You won't think so always," said Henrietta.
"I don't know what great unhappiness might bring me to; but it seems to
me I shall always be ashamed. One must accept one's deeds. I married
him before all the world; I was perfectly free; it was impossible to do
anything more deliberate. One can't change that way," Isabel repeated.
"You HAVE changed, in spite of the impossibility. I hope you don't mean
to say you like him."
Isabel debated. "No, I don't like him. I can tell you, because I'm weary
of my secret. But that's enough; I can't announce it on the housetops."
Henrietta gave a laugh. "Don't you think you're rather too considerate?"
"It's not of him that I'm considerate--it's of myself!" Isabel answered.
It was not surprising Gilbert Osmond should not have taken comfort in
Miss Stackpole; his instinct had naturally set him in opposition to a
young lady capable of advising his wife to withdraw from the conjugal
roof. When she arrived in Rome he had said to Isabel that he hoped she
would leave her friend the interviewer alone; and Isabel had answered
that he at least had nothing to fear from her. She said to Henrietta
that as Osmond didn't like her she couldn't invite her to dine, but
they could easily see each other in other ways. Isabel received Miss
Stackpole freely in her own sitting-room, and took her repeatedly to
drive, face to face with Pansy, who, bending a little forward, on the
opposite seat of the carriage, gazed at the celebrated authoress with a
respectful attention which Henrietta occasionally found irritating. She
complained to Isabel that Miss Osmond had a little look as if she should
remember everything one said. "I don't want to be remembered that way,"
Miss Stackpole declared; "I consider that my conversation refers only
to the moment, like the morning papers. Your stepdaughter, as she sits
there, looks as if she kept all the back numbers and would bring
them out some day against me." She could not teach herself to think
favourably of Pansy, whose absence of initiative, of conversation, of
personal claims, seemed to her, in a girl of twenty, unnatural and even
uncanny. Isabel presently saw that Osmond would have liked her to urge a
little the cause of her friend, insist a little upon his receiving her,
so that he might appear to suffer for good manners' sake. Her immediate
acceptance of his objections put him too much in the wrong--it being in
effect one of the disadvantages of expressing contempt that you cannot
enjoy at the same time the credit of expressing sympathy. Osmond held
to his credit, and yet he held to his objections--all of which were
elements difficult to reconcile. The right thing would have been that
Miss Stackpole should come to dine at Palazzo Roccanera once or twice,
so that (in spite of his superficial civility, always so great) she
might judge for herself how little pleasure it gave him. From the
moment, however, that both the ladies were so unaccommodating, there was
nothing for Osmond but to wish the lady from New York would take herself
off. It was surprising how little satisfaction he got from his wife's
friends; he took occasion to call Isabel's attention to it.
"You're certainly not fortunate in your intimates; I wish you might make
a new collection," he said to her one morning in reference to nothing
visible at the moment, but in a tone of ripe reflection which deprived
the remark of all brutal abruptness. "It's as if you had taken the
trouble to pick out the people in the world that I have least in common
with. Your cousin I have always thought a conceited ass--besides his
being the most ill-favoured animal I know. Then it's insufferably
tiresome that one can't tell him so; one must spare him on account of
his health. His health seems to me the best part of him; it gives him
privileges enjoyed by no one else. If he's so desperately ill there's
only one way to prove it; but he seems to have no mind for that. I can't
say much more for the great Warburton. When one really thinks of it,
the cool insolence of that performance was something rare! He comes and
looks at one's daughter as if she were a suite of apartments; he tries
the door-handles and looks out of the windows, raps on the walls and
almost thinks he'll take the place. Will you be so good as to draw up a
lease? Then, on the whole, he decides that the rooms are too small; he
doesn't think he could live on a third floor; he must look out for a
piano nobile. And he goes away after having got a month's lodging in the
poor little apartment for nothing. Miss Stackpole, however, is your most
wonderful invention. She strikes me as a kind of monster. One hasn't
a nerve in one's body that she doesn't set quivering. You know I never
have admitted that she's a woman. Do you know what she reminds me of? Of
a new steel pen--the most odious thing in nature. She talks as a steel
pen writes; aren't her letters, by the way, on ruled paper? She thinks
and moves and walks and looks exactly as she talks. You may say that
she doesn't hurt me, inasmuch as I don't see her. I don't see her, but I
hear her; I hear her all day long. Her voice is in my ears; I can't get
rid of it. I know exactly what she says, and every inflexion of the tone
in which she says it. She says charming things about me, and they give
you great comfort. I don't like at all to think she talks about me--I
feel as I should feel if I knew the footman were wearing my hat."
Henrietta talked about Gilbert Osmond, as his wife assured him, rather
less than he suspected. She had plenty of other subjects, in two of
which the reader may be supposed to be especially interested. She let
her friend know that Caspar Goodwood had discovered for himself that
she was unhappy, though indeed her ingenuity was unable to suggest what
comfort he hoped to give her by coming to Rome and yet not calling
on her. They met him twice in the street, but he had no appearance of
seeing them; they were driving, and he had a habit of looking straight
in front of him, as if he proposed to take in but one object at a time.
Isabel could have fancied she had seen him the day before; it must
have been with just that face and step that he had walked out of Mrs.
Touchett's door at the close of their last interview. He was dressed
just as he had been dressed on that day, Isabel remembered the colour
of his cravat; and yet in spite of this familiar look there was a
strangeness in his figure too, something that made her feel it afresh
to be rather terrible he should have come to Rome. He looked bigger and
more overtopping than of old, and in those days he certainly reached
high enough. She noticed that the people whom he passed looked back
after him; but he went straight forward, lifting above them a face like
a February sky.
Miss Stackpole's other topic was very different; she gave Isabel the
latest news about Mr. Bantling. He had been out in the United States
the year before, and she was happy to say she had been able to show him
considerable attention. She didn't know how much he had enjoyed it, but
she would undertake to say it had done him good; he wasn't the same man
when he left as he had been when he came. It had opened his eyes and
shown him that England wasn't everything. He had been very much liked in
most places, and thought extremely simple--more simple than the English
were commonly supposed to be. There were people who had thought him
affected; she didn't know whether they meant that his simplicity was an
affectation. Some of his questions were too discouraging; he thought all
the chambermaids were farmers' daughters--or all the farmers' daughters
were chambermaids--she couldn't exactly remember which. He hadn't seemed
able to grasp the great school system; it had been really too much
for him. On the whole he had behaved as if there were too much of
everything--as if he could only take in a small part. The part he had
chosen was the hotel system and the river navigation. He had seemed
really fascinated with the hotels; he had a photograph of every one
he had visited. But the river steamers were his principal interest;
he wanted to do nothing but sail on the big boats. They had travelled
together from New York to Milwaukee, stopping at the most interesting
cities on the route; and whenever they started afresh he had wanted
to know if they could go by the steamer. He seemed to have no idea of
geography--had an impression that Baltimore was a Western city and was
perpetually expecting to arrive at the Mississippi. He appeared never
to have heard of any river in America but the Mississippi and was
unprepared to recognise the existence of the Hudson, though obliged to
confess at last that it was fully equal to the Rhine. They had spent
some pleasant hours in the palace-cars; he was always ordering ice-cream
from the coloured man. He could never get used to that idea--that you
could get ice-cream in the cars. Of course you couldn't, nor fans,
nor candy, nor anything in the English cars! He found the heat quite
overwhelming, and she had told him she indeed expected it was
the biggest he had ever experienced. He was now in England,
hunting--"hunting round" Henrietta called it. These amusements were
those of the American red men; we had left that behind long ago, the
pleasures of the chase. It seemed to be generally believed in England
that we wore tomahawks and feathers; but such a costume was more in
keeping with English habits. Mr. Bantling would not have time to join
her in Italy, but when she should go to Paris again he expected to come
over. He wanted very much to see Versailles again; he was very fond of
the ancient regime. They didn't agree about that, but that was what she
liked Versailles for, that you could see the ancient regime had been
swept away. There were no dukes and marquises there now; she remembered
on the contrary one day when there were five American families, walking
all round. Mr. Bantling was very anxious that she should take up the
subject of England again, and he thought she might get on better with it
now; England had changed a good deal within two or three years. He was
determined that if she went there he should go to see his sister, Lady
Pensil, and that this time the invitation should come to her straight.
The mystery about that other one had never been explained.
Caspar Goodwood came at last to Palazzo Roccanera; he had written Isabel
a note beforehand, to ask leave. This was promptly granted; she would be
at home at six o'clock that afternoon. She spent the day wondering what
he was coming for--what good he expected to get of it. He had presented
himself hitherto as a person destitute of the faculty of compromise, who
would take what he had asked for or take nothing. Isabel's hospitality,
however, raised no questions, and she found no great difficulty in
appearing happy enough to deceive him. It was her conviction at
least that she deceived him, made him say to himself that he had
been misinformed. But she also saw, so she believed, that he was not
disappointed, as some other men, she was sure, would have been; he had
not come to Rome to look for an opportunity. She never found out what he
had come for; he offered her no explanation; there could be none but the
very simple one that he wanted to see her. In other words he had come
for his amusement. Isabel followed up this induction with a good deal of
eagerness, and was delighted to have found a formula that would lay the
ghost of this gentleman's ancient grievance. If he had come to Rome
for his amusement this was exactly what she wanted; for if he cared
for amusement he had got over his heartache. If he had got over his
heartache everything was as it should be and her responsibilities were
at an end. It was true that he took his recreation a little stiffly, but
he had never been loose and easy and she had every reason to believe
he was satisfied with what he saw. Henrietta was not in his confidence,
though he was in hers, and Isabel consequently received no side-light
upon his state of mind. He was open to little conversation on general
topics; it came back to her that she had said of him once, years before,
"Mr. Goodwood speaks a good deal, but he doesn't talk." He spoke a good
deal now, but he talked perhaps as little as ever; considering, that is,
how much there was in Rome to talk about. His arrival was not calculated
to simplify her relations with her husband, for if Mr. Osmond didn't
like her friends Mr. Goodwood had no claim upon his attention save as
having been one of the first of them. There was nothing for her to say
of him but that he was the very oldest; this rather meagre synthesis
exhausted the facts. She had been obliged to introduce him to Gilbert;
it was impossible she should not ask him to dinner, to her Thursday
evenings, of which she had grown very weary, but to which her husband
still held for the sake not so much of inviting people as of not
inviting them.
To the Thursdays Mr. Goodwood came regularly, solemnly, rather early;
he appeared to regard them with a good deal of gravity. Isabel every
now and then had a moment of anger; there was something so literal about
him; she thought he might know that she didn't know what to do with him.
But she couldn't call him stupid; he was not that in the least; he was
only extraordinarily honest. To be as honest as that made a man very
different from most people; one had to be almost equally honest with
HIM. She made this latter reflection at the very time she was flattering
herself she had persuaded him that she was the most light-hearted of
women. He never threw any doubt on this point, never asked her any
personal questions. He got on much better with Osmond than had seemed
probable. Osmond had a great dislike to being counted on; in such a case
he had an irresistible need of disappointing you. It was in virtue of
this principle that he gave himself the entertainment of taking a fancy
to a perpendicular Bostonian whom he had been depended upon to treat
with coldness. He asked Isabel if Mr. Goodwood also had wanted to marry
her, and expressed surprise at her not having accepted him. It would
have been an excellent thing, like living under some tall belfry which
would strike all the hours and make a queer vibration in the upper air.
He declared he liked to talk with the great Goodwood; it wasn't easy at
first, you had to climb up an interminable steep staircase up to the
top of the tower; but when you got there you had a big view and felt a
little fresh breeze. Osmond, as we know, had delightful qualities, and
he gave Caspar Goodwood the benefit of them all. Isabel could see that
Mr. Goodwood thought better of her husband than he had ever wished
to; he had given her the impression that morning in Florence of being
inaccessible to a good impression. Gilbert asked him repeatedly to
dinner, and Mr. Goodwood smoked a cigar with him afterwards and even
desired to be shown his collections. Gilbert said to Isabel that he was
very original; he was as strong and of as good a style as an English
portmanteau,--he had plenty of straps and buckles which would never wear
out, and a capital patent lock. Caspar Goodwood took to riding on the
Campagna and devoted much time to this exercise; it was therefore mainly
in the evening that Isabel saw him. She bethought herself of saying to
him one day that if he were willing he could render her a service. And
then she added smiling:
"I don't know, however, what right I have to ask a service of you."
"You're the person in the world who has most right," he answered. "I've
given you assurances that I've never given any one else."
The service was that he should go and see her cousin Ralph, who was ill
at the Hotel de Paris, alone, and be as kind to him as possible. Mr.
Goodwood had never seen him, but he would know who the poor fellow
was; if she was not mistaken Ralph had once invited him to Gardencourt.
Caspar remembered the invitation perfectly, and, though he was not
supposed to be a man of imagination, had enough to put himself in the
place of a poor gentleman who lay dying at a Roman inn. He called at the
Hotel de Paris and, on being shown into the presence of the master of
Gardencourt, found Miss Stackpole sitting beside his sofa. A singular
change had in fact occurred in this lady's relations with Ralph
Touchett. She had not been asked by Isabel to go and see him, but on
hearing that he was too ill to come out had immediately gone of her
own motion. After this she had paid him a daily visit--always under
the conviction that they were great enemies. "Oh yes, we're intimate
enemies," Ralph used to say; and he accused her freely--as freely as the
humour of it would allow--of coming to worry him to death. In reality
they became excellent friends, Henrietta much wondering that she should
never have liked him before. Ralph liked her exactly as much as he had
always done; he had never doubted for a moment that she was an excellent
fellow. They talked about everything and always differed; about
everything, that is, but Isabel--a topic as to which Ralph always had
a thin forefinger on his lips. Mr. Bantling on the other hand proved
a great resource; Ralph was capable of discussing Mr. Bantling with
Henrietta for hours. Discussion was stimulated of course by their
inevitable difference of view--Ralph having amused himself with taking
the ground that the genial ex-guardsman was a regular Machiavelli.
Caspar Goodwood could contribute nothing to such a debate; but after
he had been left alone with his host he found there were various other
matters they could take up. It must be admitted that the lady who had
just gone out was not one of these; Caspar granted all Miss Stackpole's
merits in advance, but had no further remark to make about her. Neither,
after the first allusions, did the two men expatiate upon Mrs. Osmond--a
theme in which Goodwood perceived as many dangers as Ralph. He felt very
sorry for that unclassable personage; he couldn't bear to see a pleasant
man, so pleasant for all his queerness, so beyond anything to be done.
There was always something to be done, for Goodwood, and he did it in
this case by repeating several times his visit to the Hotel de Paris.
It seemed to Isabel that she had been very clever; she had artfully
disposed of the superfluous Caspar. She had given him an occupation; she
had converted him into a caretaker of Ralph. She had a plan of making
him travel northward with her cousin as soon as the first mild weather
should allow it. Lord Warburton had brought Ralph to Rome and Mr.
Goodwood should take him away. There seemed a happy symmetry in this,
and she was now intensely eager that Ralph should depart. She had a
constant fear he would die there before her eyes and a horror of the
occurrence of this event at an inn, by her door, which he had so rarely
entered. Ralph must sink to his last rest in his own dear house, in
one of those deep, dim chambers of Gardencourt where the dark ivy would
cluster round the edges of the glimmering window. There seemed to Isabel
in these days something sacred in Gardencourt; no chapter of the past
was more perfectly irrecoverable. When she thought of the months she had
spent there the tears rose to her eyes. She flattered herself, as I
say, upon her ingenuity, but she had need of all she could muster;
for several events occurred which seemed to confront and defy her. The
Countess Gemini arrived from Florence--arrived with her trunks, her
dresses, her chatter, her falsehoods, her frivolity, the strange, the
unholy legend of the number of her lovers. Edward Rosier, who had been
away somewhere,--no one, not even Pansy, knew where,--reappeared in Rome
and began to write her long letters, which she never answered. Madame
Merle returned from Naples and said to her with a strange smile: "What
on earth did you do with Lord Warburton?" As if it were any business of
hers!
| During a period of Madame Merle's absence from Rome, Isabel is haunted by strange visions at night of her husband and Madame Merle together. She feels her imagination arrive at an elusive point only to be checked by a nameless dread. Henrietta arrives in Rome and visits Isabel. She informs her that Caspar Goodwood is also in Rome, but Goodwood delays in coming to see Isabel. Sometimes Isabel believes she sees him on the street. Isabel feels she must put her own spiritual affairs in order, but she is afraid that if Caspar comes to see her he will know how much such affairs are in disarray. Isabel lets Henrietta know how unhappy she is, and Henrietta responds by asking her why she does not leave. Isabel declares that she must accept her choice, because she made it freely. Henrietta shows herself to be a good friend who has made the journey from America simply because she knows her friend Isabel is unhappy. Henrietta tells Isabel about Mr. Bantling's journey to America and how he was received there as a "simple" man. In this chapter, we get a sense of the various ways Isabel's friends constellate with each other and with her husband. Pansy finds Henrietta fascinating, and Henrietta thinks that Pansy is suspicious, remembering everything she says. Osmond dislikes Ralph, believing he is pompous. He thinks his only redeeming quality is the fact that he is ill, but thinks he ought to prove how ill he is by dying. He is offended by Lord Warburton's behavior, comparing him to a man that has come to buy a house, gone and looked around in each and every room, only to escape having not paid for any rent. Osmond likens Henrietta to a "steel pen" - she is sharp and grating, and he finds her simply to be a "monster". Caspar finally visits Isabel and surprisingly he and Osmond get along quite well. When Osmond learns that Caspar proposed marriage, he is surprised that Isabel did not accept, saying it would have been like living under a "tall belfry". Caspar comes to Isabel's Thursday evening gatherings regularly. Isabel asks Caspar to visit Ralph as a favor to herself. When Caspar goes to visit Ralph, he finds Henrietta has also been keeping Ralph company. Ralph and Henrietta jokingly have declared each other enemies, and of course they seem to accord in nothing. Isabel's plan is to have Caspar accompany Ralph back to Gardencourt. This would be convenient too because it would give Caspar an occupation away from herself. She believes it would be fitting if Ralph would take his final resting place in his own home. She associates Gardencourt with a sacred time in her life | summary |
It was from Henrietta Stackpole that she learned how Caspar Goodwood had
come to Rome; an event that took place three days after Lord Warburton's
departure. This latter fact had been preceded by an incident of some
importance to Isabel--the temporary absence, once again, of Madame
Merle, who had gone to Naples to stay with a friend, the happy possessor
of a villa at Posilippo. Madame Merle had ceased to minister to Isabel's
happiness, who found herself wondering whether the most discreet of
women might not also by chance be the most dangerous. Sometimes, at
night, she had strange visions; she seemed to see her husband and her
friend--his friend--in dim, indistinguishable combination. It seemed to
her that she had not done with her; this lady had something in reserve.
Isabel's imagination applied itself actively to this elusive point, but
every now and then it was checked by a nameless dread, so that when
the charming woman was away from Rome she had almost a consciousness
of respite. She had already learned from Miss Stackpole that Caspar
Goodwood was in Europe, Henrietta having written to make it known to
her immediately after meeting him in Paris. He himself never wrote to
Isabel, and though he was in Europe she thought it very possible he
might not desire to see her. Their last interview, before her marriage,
had had quite the character of a complete rupture; if she remembered
rightly he had said he wished to take his last look at her. Since then
he had been the most discordant survival of her earlier time--the only
one in fact with which a permanent pain was associated. He had left her
that morning with a sense of the most superfluous of shocks: it was like
a collision between vessels in broad daylight. There had been no mist,
no hidden current to excuse it, and she herself had only wished to steer
wide. He had bumped against her prow, however, while her hand was on the
tiller, and--to complete the metaphor--had given the lighter vessel a
strain which still occasionally betrayed itself in a faint creaking. It
had been horrid to see him, because he represented the only serious harm
that (to her belief) she had ever done in the world: he was the only
person with an unsatisfied claim on her. She had made him unhappy, she
couldn't help it; and his unhappiness was a grim reality. She had cried
with rage, after he had left her, at--she hardly knew what: she tried to
think it had been at his want of consideration. He had come to her with
his unhappiness when her own bliss was so perfect; he had done his best
to darken the brightness of those pure rays. He had not been violent,
and yet there had been a violence in the impression. There had been a
violence at any rate in something somewhere; perhaps it was only in her
own fit of weeping and in that after-sense of the same which had lasted
three or four days.
The effect of his final appeal had in short faded away, and all the
first year of her marriage he had dropped out of her books. He was a
thankless subject of reference; it was disagreeable to have to think
of a person who was sore and sombre about you and whom you could yet do
nothing to relieve. It would have been different if she had been able to
doubt, even a little, of his unreconciled state, as she doubted of Lord
Warburton's; unfortunately it was beyond question, and this aggressive,
uncompromising look of it was just what made it unattractive. She could
never say to herself that here was a sufferer who had compensations, as
she was able to say in the case of her English suitor. She had no faith
in Mr. Goodwood's compensations and no esteem for them. A cotton factory
was not a compensation for anything--least of all for having failed
to marry Isabel Archer. And yet, beyond that, she hardly knew what
he had--save of course his intrinsic qualities. Oh, he was intrinsic
enough; she never thought of his even looking for artificial aids. If
he extended his business--that, to the best of her belief, was the
only form exertion could take with him--it would be because it was an
enterprising thing, or good for the business; not in the least because
he might hope it would overlay the past. This gave his figure a kind of
bareness and bleakness which made the accident of meeting it in memory
or in apprehension a peculiar concussion; it was deficient in the social
drapery commonly muffling, in an overcivilized age, the sharpness of
human contacts. His perfect silence, moreover, the fact that she never
heard from him and very seldom heard any mention of him, deepened this
impression of his loneliness. She asked Lily for news of him, from
time to time; but Lily knew nothing of Boston--her imagination was
all bounded on the east by Madison Avenue. As time went on Isabel had
thought of him oftener, and with fewer restrictions; she had had more
than once the idea of writing to him. She had never told her husband
about him--never let Osmond know of his visits to her in Florence; a
reserve not dictated in the early period by a want of confidence
in Osmond, but simply by the consideration that the young man's
disappointment was not her secret but his own. It would be wrong of her,
she had believed, to convey it to another, and Mr. Goodwood's affairs
could have, after all, little interest for Gilbert. When it had come
to the point she had never written to him; it seemed to her that,
considering his grievance, the least she could do was to let him alone.
Nevertheless she would have been glad to be in some way nearer to him.
It was not that it ever occurred to her that she might have married him;
even after the consequences of her actual union had grown vivid to her
that particular reflection, though she indulged in so many, had not had
the assurance to present itself. But on finding herself in trouble he
had become a member of that circle of things with which she wished to
set herself right. I have mentioned how passionately she needed to feel
that her unhappiness should not have come to her through her own fault.
She had no near prospect of dying, and yet she wished to make her peace
with the world--to put her spiritual affairs in order. It came back to
her from time to time that there was an account still to be settled
with Caspar, and she saw herself disposed or able to settle it to-day
on terms easier for him than ever before. Still, when she learned he was
coming to Rome she felt all afraid; it would be more disagreeable for
him than for any one else to make out--since he WOULD make it out, as
over a falsified balance-sheet or something of that sort--the intimate
disarray of her affairs. Deep in her breast she believed that he had
invested his all in her happiness, while the others had invested only
a part. He was one more person from whom she should have to conceal her
stress. She was reassured, however, after he arrived in Rome, for he
spent several days without coming to see her.
Henrietta Stackpole, it may well be imagined, was more punctual, and
Isabel was largely favoured with the society of her friend. She threw
herself into it, for now that she had made such a point of keeping
her conscience clear, that was one way of proving she had not been
superficial--the more so as the years, in their flight, had rather
enriched than blighted those peculiarities which had been humorously
criticised by persons less interested than Isabel, and which were still
marked enough to give loyalty a spice of heroism. Henrietta was as
keen and quick and fresh as ever, and as neat and bright and fair. Her
remarkably open eyes, lighted like great glazed railway-stations, had
put up no shutters; her attire had lost none of its crispness, her
opinions none of their national reference. She was by no means quite
unchanged, however it struck Isabel she had grown vague. Of old she had
never been vague; though undertaking many enquiries at once, she had
managed to be entire and pointed about each. She had a reason for
everything she did; she fairly bristled with motives. Formerly, when
she came to Europe it was because she wished to see it, but now, having
already seen it, she had no such excuse. She didn't for a moment pretend
that the desire to examine decaying civilisations had anything to do
with her present enterprise; her journey was rather an expression of her
independence of the old world than of a sense of further obligations to
it. "It's nothing to come to Europe," she said to Isabel; "it doesn't
seem to me one needs so many reasons for that. It is something to stay
at home; this is much more important." It was not therefore with a sense
of doing anything very important that she treated herself to another
pilgrimage to Rome; she had seen the place before and carefully
inspected it; her present act was simply a sign of familiarity, of her
knowing all about it, of her having as good a right as any one else to
be there. This was all very well, and Henrietta was restless; she had a
perfect right to be restless too, if one came to that. But she had after
all a better reason for coming to Rome than that she cared for it so
little. Her friend easily recognised it, and with it the worth of the
other's fidelity. She had crossed the stormy ocean in midwinter because
she had guessed that Isabel was sad. Henrietta guessed a great deal, but
she had never guessed so happily as that. Isabel's satisfactions just
now were few, but even if they had been more numerous there would still
have been something of individual joy in her sense of being justified
in having always thought highly of Henrietta. She had made large
concessions with regard to her, and had yet insisted that, with all
abatements, she was very valuable. It was not her own triumph, however,
that she found good; it was simply the relief of confessing to this
confidant, the first person to whom she had owned it, that she was not
in the least at her ease. Henrietta had herself approached this point
with the smallest possible delay, and had accused her to her face of
being wretched. She was a woman, she was a sister; she was not Ralph,
nor Lord Warburton, nor Caspar Goodwood, and Isabel could speak.
"Yes, I'm wretched," she said very mildly. She hated to hear herself say
it; she tried to say it as judicially as possible.
"What does he do to you?" Henrietta asked, frowning as if she were
enquiring into the operations of a quack doctor.
"He does nothing. But he doesn't like me."
"He's very hard to please!" cried Miss Stackpole. "Why don't you leave
him?"
"I can't change that way," Isabel said.
"Why not, I should like to know? You won't confess that you've made a
mistake. You're too proud."
"I don't know whether I'm too proud. But I can't publish my mistake. I
don't think that's decent. I'd much rather die."
"You won't think so always," said Henrietta.
"I don't know what great unhappiness might bring me to; but it seems to
me I shall always be ashamed. One must accept one's deeds. I married
him before all the world; I was perfectly free; it was impossible to do
anything more deliberate. One can't change that way," Isabel repeated.
"You HAVE changed, in spite of the impossibility. I hope you don't mean
to say you like him."
Isabel debated. "No, I don't like him. I can tell you, because I'm weary
of my secret. But that's enough; I can't announce it on the housetops."
Henrietta gave a laugh. "Don't you think you're rather too considerate?"
"It's not of him that I'm considerate--it's of myself!" Isabel answered.
It was not surprising Gilbert Osmond should not have taken comfort in
Miss Stackpole; his instinct had naturally set him in opposition to a
young lady capable of advising his wife to withdraw from the conjugal
roof. When she arrived in Rome he had said to Isabel that he hoped she
would leave her friend the interviewer alone; and Isabel had answered
that he at least had nothing to fear from her. She said to Henrietta
that as Osmond didn't like her she couldn't invite her to dine, but
they could easily see each other in other ways. Isabel received Miss
Stackpole freely in her own sitting-room, and took her repeatedly to
drive, face to face with Pansy, who, bending a little forward, on the
opposite seat of the carriage, gazed at the celebrated authoress with a
respectful attention which Henrietta occasionally found irritating. She
complained to Isabel that Miss Osmond had a little look as if she should
remember everything one said. "I don't want to be remembered that way,"
Miss Stackpole declared; "I consider that my conversation refers only
to the moment, like the morning papers. Your stepdaughter, as she sits
there, looks as if she kept all the back numbers and would bring
them out some day against me." She could not teach herself to think
favourably of Pansy, whose absence of initiative, of conversation, of
personal claims, seemed to her, in a girl of twenty, unnatural and even
uncanny. Isabel presently saw that Osmond would have liked her to urge a
little the cause of her friend, insist a little upon his receiving her,
so that he might appear to suffer for good manners' sake. Her immediate
acceptance of his objections put him too much in the wrong--it being in
effect one of the disadvantages of expressing contempt that you cannot
enjoy at the same time the credit of expressing sympathy. Osmond held
to his credit, and yet he held to his objections--all of which were
elements difficult to reconcile. The right thing would have been that
Miss Stackpole should come to dine at Palazzo Roccanera once or twice,
so that (in spite of his superficial civility, always so great) she
might judge for herself how little pleasure it gave him. From the
moment, however, that both the ladies were so unaccommodating, there was
nothing for Osmond but to wish the lady from New York would take herself
off. It was surprising how little satisfaction he got from his wife's
friends; he took occasion to call Isabel's attention to it.
"You're certainly not fortunate in your intimates; I wish you might make
a new collection," he said to her one morning in reference to nothing
visible at the moment, but in a tone of ripe reflection which deprived
the remark of all brutal abruptness. "It's as if you had taken the
trouble to pick out the people in the world that I have least in common
with. Your cousin I have always thought a conceited ass--besides his
being the most ill-favoured animal I know. Then it's insufferably
tiresome that one can't tell him so; one must spare him on account of
his health. His health seems to me the best part of him; it gives him
privileges enjoyed by no one else. If he's so desperately ill there's
only one way to prove it; but he seems to have no mind for that. I can't
say much more for the great Warburton. When one really thinks of it,
the cool insolence of that performance was something rare! He comes and
looks at one's daughter as if she were a suite of apartments; he tries
the door-handles and looks out of the windows, raps on the walls and
almost thinks he'll take the place. Will you be so good as to draw up a
lease? Then, on the whole, he decides that the rooms are too small; he
doesn't think he could live on a third floor; he must look out for a
piano nobile. And he goes away after having got a month's lodging in the
poor little apartment for nothing. Miss Stackpole, however, is your most
wonderful invention. She strikes me as a kind of monster. One hasn't
a nerve in one's body that she doesn't set quivering. You know I never
have admitted that she's a woman. Do you know what she reminds me of? Of
a new steel pen--the most odious thing in nature. She talks as a steel
pen writes; aren't her letters, by the way, on ruled paper? She thinks
and moves and walks and looks exactly as she talks. You may say that
she doesn't hurt me, inasmuch as I don't see her. I don't see her, but I
hear her; I hear her all day long. Her voice is in my ears; I can't get
rid of it. I know exactly what she says, and every inflexion of the tone
in which she says it. She says charming things about me, and they give
you great comfort. I don't like at all to think she talks about me--I
feel as I should feel if I knew the footman were wearing my hat."
Henrietta talked about Gilbert Osmond, as his wife assured him, rather
less than he suspected. She had plenty of other subjects, in two of
which the reader may be supposed to be especially interested. She let
her friend know that Caspar Goodwood had discovered for himself that
she was unhappy, though indeed her ingenuity was unable to suggest what
comfort he hoped to give her by coming to Rome and yet not calling
on her. They met him twice in the street, but he had no appearance of
seeing them; they were driving, and he had a habit of looking straight
in front of him, as if he proposed to take in but one object at a time.
Isabel could have fancied she had seen him the day before; it must
have been with just that face and step that he had walked out of Mrs.
Touchett's door at the close of their last interview. He was dressed
just as he had been dressed on that day, Isabel remembered the colour
of his cravat; and yet in spite of this familiar look there was a
strangeness in his figure too, something that made her feel it afresh
to be rather terrible he should have come to Rome. He looked bigger and
more overtopping than of old, and in those days he certainly reached
high enough. She noticed that the people whom he passed looked back
after him; but he went straight forward, lifting above them a face like
a February sky.
Miss Stackpole's other topic was very different; she gave Isabel the
latest news about Mr. Bantling. He had been out in the United States
the year before, and she was happy to say she had been able to show him
considerable attention. She didn't know how much he had enjoyed it, but
she would undertake to say it had done him good; he wasn't the same man
when he left as he had been when he came. It had opened his eyes and
shown him that England wasn't everything. He had been very much liked in
most places, and thought extremely simple--more simple than the English
were commonly supposed to be. There were people who had thought him
affected; she didn't know whether they meant that his simplicity was an
affectation. Some of his questions were too discouraging; he thought all
the chambermaids were farmers' daughters--or all the farmers' daughters
were chambermaids--she couldn't exactly remember which. He hadn't seemed
able to grasp the great school system; it had been really too much
for him. On the whole he had behaved as if there were too much of
everything--as if he could only take in a small part. The part he had
chosen was the hotel system and the river navigation. He had seemed
really fascinated with the hotels; he had a photograph of every one
he had visited. But the river steamers were his principal interest;
he wanted to do nothing but sail on the big boats. They had travelled
together from New York to Milwaukee, stopping at the most interesting
cities on the route; and whenever they started afresh he had wanted
to know if they could go by the steamer. He seemed to have no idea of
geography--had an impression that Baltimore was a Western city and was
perpetually expecting to arrive at the Mississippi. He appeared never
to have heard of any river in America but the Mississippi and was
unprepared to recognise the existence of the Hudson, though obliged to
confess at last that it was fully equal to the Rhine. They had spent
some pleasant hours in the palace-cars; he was always ordering ice-cream
from the coloured man. He could never get used to that idea--that you
could get ice-cream in the cars. Of course you couldn't, nor fans,
nor candy, nor anything in the English cars! He found the heat quite
overwhelming, and she had told him she indeed expected it was
the biggest he had ever experienced. He was now in England,
hunting--"hunting round" Henrietta called it. These amusements were
those of the American red men; we had left that behind long ago, the
pleasures of the chase. It seemed to be generally believed in England
that we wore tomahawks and feathers; but such a costume was more in
keeping with English habits. Mr. Bantling would not have time to join
her in Italy, but when she should go to Paris again he expected to come
over. He wanted very much to see Versailles again; he was very fond of
the ancient regime. They didn't agree about that, but that was what she
liked Versailles for, that you could see the ancient regime had been
swept away. There were no dukes and marquises there now; she remembered
on the contrary one day when there were five American families, walking
all round. Mr. Bantling was very anxious that she should take up the
subject of England again, and he thought she might get on better with it
now; England had changed a good deal within two or three years. He was
determined that if she went there he should go to see his sister, Lady
Pensil, and that this time the invitation should come to her straight.
The mystery about that other one had never been explained.
Caspar Goodwood came at last to Palazzo Roccanera; he had written Isabel
a note beforehand, to ask leave. This was promptly granted; she would be
at home at six o'clock that afternoon. She spent the day wondering what
he was coming for--what good he expected to get of it. He had presented
himself hitherto as a person destitute of the faculty of compromise, who
would take what he had asked for or take nothing. Isabel's hospitality,
however, raised no questions, and she found no great difficulty in
appearing happy enough to deceive him. It was her conviction at
least that she deceived him, made him say to himself that he had
been misinformed. But she also saw, so she believed, that he was not
disappointed, as some other men, she was sure, would have been; he had
not come to Rome to look for an opportunity. She never found out what he
had come for; he offered her no explanation; there could be none but the
very simple one that he wanted to see her. In other words he had come
for his amusement. Isabel followed up this induction with a good deal of
eagerness, and was delighted to have found a formula that would lay the
ghost of this gentleman's ancient grievance. If he had come to Rome
for his amusement this was exactly what she wanted; for if he cared
for amusement he had got over his heartache. If he had got over his
heartache everything was as it should be and her responsibilities were
at an end. It was true that he took his recreation a little stiffly, but
he had never been loose and easy and she had every reason to believe
he was satisfied with what he saw. Henrietta was not in his confidence,
though he was in hers, and Isabel consequently received no side-light
upon his state of mind. He was open to little conversation on general
topics; it came back to her that she had said of him once, years before,
"Mr. Goodwood speaks a good deal, but he doesn't talk." He spoke a good
deal now, but he talked perhaps as little as ever; considering, that is,
how much there was in Rome to talk about. His arrival was not calculated
to simplify her relations with her husband, for if Mr. Osmond didn't
like her friends Mr. Goodwood had no claim upon his attention save as
having been one of the first of them. There was nothing for her to say
of him but that he was the very oldest; this rather meagre synthesis
exhausted the facts. She had been obliged to introduce him to Gilbert;
it was impossible she should not ask him to dinner, to her Thursday
evenings, of which she had grown very weary, but to which her husband
still held for the sake not so much of inviting people as of not
inviting them.
To the Thursdays Mr. Goodwood came regularly, solemnly, rather early;
he appeared to regard them with a good deal of gravity. Isabel every
now and then had a moment of anger; there was something so literal about
him; she thought he might know that she didn't know what to do with him.
But she couldn't call him stupid; he was not that in the least; he was
only extraordinarily honest. To be as honest as that made a man very
different from most people; one had to be almost equally honest with
HIM. She made this latter reflection at the very time she was flattering
herself she had persuaded him that she was the most light-hearted of
women. He never threw any doubt on this point, never asked her any
personal questions. He got on much better with Osmond than had seemed
probable. Osmond had a great dislike to being counted on; in such a case
he had an irresistible need of disappointing you. It was in virtue of
this principle that he gave himself the entertainment of taking a fancy
to a perpendicular Bostonian whom he had been depended upon to treat
with coldness. He asked Isabel if Mr. Goodwood also had wanted to marry
her, and expressed surprise at her not having accepted him. It would
have been an excellent thing, like living under some tall belfry which
would strike all the hours and make a queer vibration in the upper air.
He declared he liked to talk with the great Goodwood; it wasn't easy at
first, you had to climb up an interminable steep staircase up to the
top of the tower; but when you got there you had a big view and felt a
little fresh breeze. Osmond, as we know, had delightful qualities, and
he gave Caspar Goodwood the benefit of them all. Isabel could see that
Mr. Goodwood thought better of her husband than he had ever wished
to; he had given her the impression that morning in Florence of being
inaccessible to a good impression. Gilbert asked him repeatedly to
dinner, and Mr. Goodwood smoked a cigar with him afterwards and even
desired to be shown his collections. Gilbert said to Isabel that he was
very original; he was as strong and of as good a style as an English
portmanteau,--he had plenty of straps and buckles which would never wear
out, and a capital patent lock. Caspar Goodwood took to riding on the
Campagna and devoted much time to this exercise; it was therefore mainly
in the evening that Isabel saw him. She bethought herself of saying to
him one day that if he were willing he could render her a service. And
then she added smiling:
"I don't know, however, what right I have to ask a service of you."
"You're the person in the world who has most right," he answered. "I've
given you assurances that I've never given any one else."
The service was that he should go and see her cousin Ralph, who was ill
at the Hotel de Paris, alone, and be as kind to him as possible. Mr.
Goodwood had never seen him, but he would know who the poor fellow
was; if she was not mistaken Ralph had once invited him to Gardencourt.
Caspar remembered the invitation perfectly, and, though he was not
supposed to be a man of imagination, had enough to put himself in the
place of a poor gentleman who lay dying at a Roman inn. He called at the
Hotel de Paris and, on being shown into the presence of the master of
Gardencourt, found Miss Stackpole sitting beside his sofa. A singular
change had in fact occurred in this lady's relations with Ralph
Touchett. She had not been asked by Isabel to go and see him, but on
hearing that he was too ill to come out had immediately gone of her
own motion. After this she had paid him a daily visit--always under
the conviction that they were great enemies. "Oh yes, we're intimate
enemies," Ralph used to say; and he accused her freely--as freely as the
humour of it would allow--of coming to worry him to death. In reality
they became excellent friends, Henrietta much wondering that she should
never have liked him before. Ralph liked her exactly as much as he had
always done; he had never doubted for a moment that she was an excellent
fellow. They talked about everything and always differed; about
everything, that is, but Isabel--a topic as to which Ralph always had
a thin forefinger on his lips. Mr. Bantling on the other hand proved
a great resource; Ralph was capable of discussing Mr. Bantling with
Henrietta for hours. Discussion was stimulated of course by their
inevitable difference of view--Ralph having amused himself with taking
the ground that the genial ex-guardsman was a regular Machiavelli.
Caspar Goodwood could contribute nothing to such a debate; but after
he had been left alone with his host he found there were various other
matters they could take up. It must be admitted that the lady who had
just gone out was not one of these; Caspar granted all Miss Stackpole's
merits in advance, but had no further remark to make about her. Neither,
after the first allusions, did the two men expatiate upon Mrs. Osmond--a
theme in which Goodwood perceived as many dangers as Ralph. He felt very
sorry for that unclassable personage; he couldn't bear to see a pleasant
man, so pleasant for all his queerness, so beyond anything to be done.
There was always something to be done, for Goodwood, and he did it in
this case by repeating several times his visit to the Hotel de Paris.
It seemed to Isabel that she had been very clever; she had artfully
disposed of the superfluous Caspar. She had given him an occupation; she
had converted him into a caretaker of Ralph. She had a plan of making
him travel northward with her cousin as soon as the first mild weather
should allow it. Lord Warburton had brought Ralph to Rome and Mr.
Goodwood should take him away. There seemed a happy symmetry in this,
and she was now intensely eager that Ralph should depart. She had a
constant fear he would die there before her eyes and a horror of the
occurrence of this event at an inn, by her door, which he had so rarely
entered. Ralph must sink to his last rest in his own dear house, in
one of those deep, dim chambers of Gardencourt where the dark ivy would
cluster round the edges of the glimmering window. There seemed to Isabel
in these days something sacred in Gardencourt; no chapter of the past
was more perfectly irrecoverable. When she thought of the months she had
spent there the tears rose to her eyes. She flattered herself, as I
say, upon her ingenuity, but she had need of all she could muster;
for several events occurred which seemed to confront and defy her. The
Countess Gemini arrived from Florence--arrived with her trunks, her
dresses, her chatter, her falsehoods, her frivolity, the strange, the
unholy legend of the number of her lovers. Edward Rosier, who had been
away somewhere,--no one, not even Pansy, knew where,--reappeared in Rome
and began to write her long letters, which she never answered. Madame
Merle returned from Naples and said to her with a strange smile: "What
on earth did you do with Lord Warburton?" As if it were any business of
hers!
| Isabel's conversation with Osmond declares her intention not to help him in his quest to marry Pansy to Lord Warburton -- he accuses her then of taking a direct action against him. This is the beginning of an open confrontation with her husband that she has never before had, and which she had feared at the beginning of Chapter 45 would occur in reference to Ralph. It is a demonstration of a kind of psychological violence that people can do to each other by acting against one another's interests, or ignoring each other's desires. Osmond shows his own limited perspective when he refuses to acknowledge Pansy's own desires as even factoring into her life: he simply believes she should follow convention and try to ambitiously climb as high in society as possible through marriage. Isabel's response to Henrietta's suggestion that she simply leave Osmond implies that Isabel believes in a certain moral standard for her own behavior. Unlike being tied to conventionality, like Osmond's understanding of marriage, Isabel takes responsibility for her actions, believing that she freely made her choice to be with Osmond and that she ought not to hypocritically act in ways contradicting the oath she made. Robert Pippin has understood Isabel to be one of Henry James' best moral heroines, who is asking the question of how she can morally assert her own freedom in life - how she can act independently, taking responsibility for her own actions. She is faced with the modern problem of decaying social relations that are empty formal conventions with no real moral values. She is faced with a problem of meaning that is unstable because nobody shares common meanings. Gilbert Osmond for example sees marriage as a financial transaction, but Isabel marries for her own ideas. Her assertion to Henrietta that she must adhere to the consequences of her actions shows Isabel's commitment to keeping her actions consistent, even in the realization that they are isolating. | analysis |
Madame Merle had not made her appearance at Palazzo Roccanera on the
evening of that Thursday of which I have narrated some of the incidents,
and Isabel, though she observed her absence, was not surprised by it.
Things had passed between them which added no stimulus to sociability,
and to appreciate which we must glance a little backward. It has been
mentioned that Madame Merle returned from Naples shortly after Lord
Warburton had left Rome, and that on her first meeting with Isabel
(whom, to do her justice, she came immediately to see) her first
utterance had been an enquiry as to the whereabouts of this nobleman,
for whom she appeared to hold her dear friend accountable.
"Please don't talk of him," said Isabel for answer; "we've heard so much
of him of late."
Madame Merle bent her head on one side a little, protestingly, and
smiled at the left corner of her mouth. "You've heard, yes. But you must
remember that I've not, in Naples. I hoped to find him here and to be
able to congratulate Pansy."
"You may congratulate Pansy still; but not on marrying Lord Warburton."
"How you say that! Don't you know I had set my heart on it?" Madame
Merle asked with a great deal of spirit, but still with the intonation
of good-humour.
Isabel was discomposed, but she was determined to be good-humoured too.
"You shouldn't have gone to Naples then. You should have stayed here to
watch the affair."
"I had too much confidence in you. But do you think it's too late?"
"You had better ask Pansy," said Isabel.
"I shall ask her what you've said to her."
These words seemed to justify the impulse of self-defence aroused
on Isabel's part by her perceiving that her visitor's attitude was a
critical one. Madame Merle, as we know, had been very discreet hitherto;
she had never criticised; she had been markedly afraid of intermeddling.
But apparently she had only reserved herself for this occasion, since
she now had a dangerous quickness in her eye and an air of irritation
which even her admirable ease was not able to transmute. She had
suffered a disappointment which excited Isabel's surprise--our heroine
having no knowledge of her zealous interest in Pansy's marriage; and
she betrayed it in a manner which quickened Mrs. Osmond's alarm. More
clearly than ever before Isabel heard a cold, mocking voice proceed from
she knew not where, in the dim void that surrounded her, and declare
that this bright, strong, definite, worldly woman, this incarnation of
the practical, the personal, the immediate, was a powerful agent in her
destiny. She was nearer to her than Isabel had yet discovered, and her
nearness was not the charming accident she had so long supposed. The
sense of accident indeed had died within her that day when she happened
to be struck with the manner in which the wonderful lady and her own
husband sat together in private. No definite suspicion had as yet
taken its place; but it was enough to make her view this friend with a
different eye, to have been led to reflect that there was more intention
in her past behaviour than she had allowed for at the time. Ah yes,
there had been intention, there had been intention, Isabel said to
herself; and she seemed to wake from a long pernicious dream. What was
it that brought home to her that Madame Merle's intention had not been
good? Nothing but the mistrust which had lately taken body and which
married itself now to the fruitful wonder produced by her visitor's
challenge on behalf of poor Pansy. There was something in this challenge
which had at the very outset excited an answering defiance; a nameless
vitality which she could see to have been absent from her friend's
professions of delicacy and caution. Madame Merle had been unwilling to
interfere, certainly, but only so long as there was nothing to interfere
with. It will perhaps seem to the reader that Isabel went fast in
casting doubt, on mere suspicion, on a sincerity proved by several
years of good offices. She moved quickly indeed, and with reason, for a
strange truth was filtering into her soul. Madame Merle's interest was
identical with Osmond's: that was enough. "I think Pansy will tell
you nothing that will make you more angry," she said in answer to her
companion's last remark.
"I'm not in the least angry. I've only a great desire to retrieve the
situation. Do you consider that Warburton has left us for ever?"
"I can't tell you; I don't understand you. It's all over; please let it
rest. Osmond has talked to me a great deal about it, and I've nothing
more to say or to hear. I've no doubt," Isabel added, "that he'll be
very happy to discuss the subject with you."
"I know what he thinks; he came to see me last evening."
"As soon as you had arrived? Then you know all about it and you needn't
apply to me for information."
"It isn't information I want. At bottom it's sympathy. I had set my
heart on that marriage; the idea did what so few things do--it satisfied
the imagination."
"Your imagination, yes. But not that of the persons concerned."
"You mean by that of course that I'm not concerned. Of course not
directly. But when one's such an old friend one can't help having
something at stake. You forget how long I've known Pansy. You mean,
of course," Madame Merle added, "that YOU are one of the persons
concerned."
"No; that's the last thing I mean. I'm very weary of it all."
Madame Merle hesitated a little. "Ah yes, your work's done."
"Take care what you say," said Isabel very gravely.
"Oh, I take care; never perhaps more than when it appears least. Your
husband judges you severely."
Isabel made for a moment no answer to this; she felt choked with
bitterness. It was not the insolence of Madame Merle's informing her
that Osmond had been taking her into his confidence as against his wife
that struck her most; for she was not quick to believe that this was
meant for insolence. Madame Merle was very rarely insolent, and only
when it was exactly right. It was not right now, or at least it was not
right yet. What touched Isabel like a drop of corrosive acid upon an
open wound was the knowledge that Osmond dishonoured her in his words as
well as in his thoughts. "Should you like to know how I judge HIM?" she
asked at last.
"No, because you'd never tell me. And it would be painful for me to
know."
There was a pause, and for the first time since she had known her Isabel
thought Madame Merle disagreeable. She wished she would leave her.
"Remember how attractive Pansy is, and don't despair," she said
abruptly, with a desire that this should close their interview.
But Madame Merle's expansive presence underwent no contraction. She only
gathered her mantle about her and, with the movement, scattered upon the
air a faint, agreeable fragrance. "I don't despair; I feel encouraged.
And I didn't come to scold you; I came if possible to learn the truth. I
know you'll tell it if I ask you. It's an immense blessing with you that
one can count upon that. No, you won't believe what a comfort I take in
it."
"What truth do you speak of?" Isabel asked, wondering.
"Just this: whether Lord Warburton changed his mind quite of his own
movement or because you recommended it. To please himself I mean, or to
please you. Think of the confidence I must still have in you, in spite
of having lost a little of it," Madame Merle continued with a smile, "to
ask such a question as that!" She sat looking at her friend, to judge
the effect of her words, and then went on: "Now don't be heroic, don't
be unreasonable, don't take offence. It seems to me I do you an honour
in speaking so. I don't know another woman to whom I would do it. I
haven't the least idea that any other woman would tell me the truth. And
don't you see how well it is that your husband should know it? It's
true that he doesn't appear to have had any tact whatever in trying to
extract it; he has indulged in gratuitous suppositions. But that doesn't
alter the fact that it would make a difference in his view of his
daughter's prospects to know distinctly what really occurred. If Lord
Warburton simply got tired of the poor child, that's one thing, and it's
a pity. If he gave her up to please you it's another. That's a pity too,
but in a different way. Then, in the latter case, you'd perhaps resign
yourself to not being pleased--to simply seeing your step-daughter
married. Let him off--let us have him!"
Madame Merle had proceeded very deliberately, watching her companion and
apparently thinking she could proceed safely. As she went on Isabel grew
pale; she clasped her hands more tightly in her lap. It was not that her
visitor had at last thought it the right time to be insolent; for this
was not what was most apparent. It was a worse horror than that. "Who
are you--what are you?" Isabel murmured. "What have you to do with my
husband?" It was strange that for the moment she drew as near to him as
if she had loved him.
"Ah then, you take it heroically! I'm very sorry. Don't think, however,
that I shall do so."
"What have you to do with me?" Isabel went on.
Madame Merle slowly got up, stroking her muff, but not removing her eyes
from Isabel's face. "Everything!" she answered.
Isabel sat there looking up at her, without rising; her face was almost
a prayer to be enlightened. But the light of this woman's eyes seemed
only a darkness. "Oh misery!" she murmured at last; and she fell
back, covering her face with her hands. It had come over her like a
high-surging wave that Mrs. Touchett was right. Madame Merle had married
her. Before she uncovered her face again that lady had left the room.
Isabel took a drive alone that afternoon; she wished to be far away,
under the sky, where she could descend from her carriage and tread
upon the daisies. She had long before this taken old Rome into her
confidence, for in a world of ruins the ruin of her happiness seemed a
less unnatural catastrophe. She rested her weariness upon things that
had crumbled for centuries and yet still were upright; she dropped her
secret sadness into the silence of lonely places, where its very modern
quality detached itself and grew objective, so that as she sat in a
sun-warmed angle on a winter's day, or stood in a mouldy church to which
no one came, she could almost smile at it and think of its smallness.
Small it was, in the large Roman record, and her haunting sense of the
continuity of the human lot easily carried her from the less to the
greater. She had become deeply, tenderly acquainted with Rome; it
interfused and moderated her passion. But she had grown to think of it
chiefly as the place where people had suffered. This was what came to
her in the starved churches, where the marble columns, transferred from
pagan ruins, seemed to offer her a companionship in endurance and the
musty incense to be a compound of long-unanswered prayers. There was
no gentler nor less consistent heretic than Isabel; the firmest of
worshippers, gazing at dark altar-pictures or clustered candles, could
not have felt more intimately the suggestiveness of these objects nor
have been more liable at such moments to a spiritual visitation. Pansy,
as we know, was almost always her companion, and of late the Countess
Gemini, balancing a pink parasol, had lent brilliancy to their equipage;
but she still occasionally found herself alone when it suited her
mood and where it suited the place. On such occasions she had several
resorts; the most accessible of which perhaps was a seat on the low
parapet which edges the wide grassy space before the high, cold front
of Saint John Lateran, whence you look across the Campagna at the
far-trailing outline of the Alban Mount and at that mighty plain,
between, which is still so full of all that has passed from it. After
the departure of her cousin and his companions she roamed more than
usual; she carried her sombre spirit from one familiar shrine to the
other. Even when Pansy and the Countess were with her she felt the touch
of a vanished world. The carriage, leaving the walls of Rome behind,
rolled through narrow lanes where the wild honeysuckle had begun to
tangle itself in the hedges, or waited for her in quiet places where
the fields lay near, while she strolled further and further over the
flower-freckled turf, or sat on a stone that had once had a use and
gazed through the veil of her personal sadness at the splendid sadness
of the scene--at the dense, warm light, the far gradations and soft
confusions of colour, the motionless shepherds in lonely attitudes, the
hills where the cloud-shadows had the lightness of a blush.
On the afternoon I began with speaking of, she had taken a resolution
not to think of Madame Merle; but the resolution proved vain, and this
lady's image hovered constantly before her. She asked herself, with an
almost childlike horror of the supposition, whether to this intimate
friend of several years the great historical epithet of wicked were
to be applied. She knew the idea only by the Bible and other literary
works; to the best of her belief she had had no personal acquaintance
with wickedness. She had desired a large acquaintance with human life,
and in spite of her having flattered herself that she cultivated it with
some success this elementary privilege had been denied her. Perhaps it
was not wicked--in the historic sense--to be even deeply false; for that
was what Madame Merle had been--deeply, deeply, deeply. Isabel's Aunt
Lydia had made this discovery long before, and had mentioned it to her
niece; but Isabel had flattered herself at this time that she had a much
richer view of things, especially of the spontaneity of her own
career and the nobleness of her own interpretations, than poor
stiffly-reasoning Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle had done what she wanted;
she had brought about the union of her two friends; a reflection which
could not fail to make it a matter of wonder that she should so much
have desired such an event. There were people who had the match-making
passion, like the votaries of art for art; but Madame Merle, great
artist as she was, was scarcely one of these. She thought too ill of
marriage, too ill even of life; she had desired that particular marriage
but had not desired others. She had therefore had a conception of gain,
and Isabel asked herself where she had found her profit. It took her
naturally a long time to discover, and even then her discovery was
imperfect. It came back to her that Madame Merle, though she had seemed
to like her from their first meeting at Gardencourt, had been doubly
affectionate after Mr. Touchett's death and after learning that her
young friend had been subject to the good old man's charity. She had
found her profit not in the gross device of borrowing money, but in
the more refined idea of introducing one of her intimates to the young
woman's fresh and ingenuous fortune. She had naturally chosen her
closest intimate, and it was already vivid enough to Isabel that Gilbert
occupied this position. She found herself confronted in this manner with
the conviction that the man in the world whom she had supposed to be the
least sordid had married her, like a vulgar adventurer, for her money.
Strange to say, it had never before occurred to her; if she had thought
a good deal of harm of Osmond she had not done him this particular
injury. This was the worst she could think of, and she had been saying
to herself that the worst was still to come. A man might marry a woman
for her money perfectly well; the thing was often done. But at least
he should let her know. She wondered whether, since he had wanted her
money, her money would now satisfy him. Would he take her money and let
her go. Ah, if Mr. Touchett's great charity would but help her to-day it
would be blessed indeed! It was not slow to occur to her that if Madame
Merle had wished to do Gilbert a service his recognition to her of the
boon must have lost its warmth. What must be his feelings to-day in
regard to his too zealous benefactress, and what expression must they
have found on the part of such a master of irony? It is a singular, but
a characteristic, fact that before Isabel returned from her silent drive
she had broken its silence by the soft exclamation: "Poor, poor Madame
Merle!"
Her compassion would perhaps have been justified if on this same
afternoon she had been concealed behind one of the valuable curtains of
time-softened damask which dressed the interesting little salon of the
lady to whom it referred; the carefully-arranged apartment to which
we once paid a visit in company with the discreet Mr. Rosier. In that
apartment, towards six o'clock, Gilbert Osmond was seated, and his
hostess stood before him as Isabel had seen her stand on an occasion
commemorated in this history with an emphasis appropriate not so much to
its apparent as to its real importance.
"I don't believe you're unhappy; I believe you like it," said Madame
Merle.
"Did I say I was unhappy?" Osmond asked with a face grave enough to
suggest that he might have been.
"No, but you don't say the contrary, as you ought in common gratitude."
"Don't talk about gratitude," he returned dryly. "And don't aggravate
me," he added in a moment.
Madame Merle slowly seated herself, with her arms folded and her white
hands arranged as a support to one of them and an ornament, as it were,
to the other. She looked exquisitely calm but impressively sad. "On
your side, don't try to frighten me. I wonder if you guess some of my
thoughts."
"I trouble about them no more than I can help. I've quite enough of my
own."
"That's because they're so delightful."
Osmond rested his head against the back of his chair and looked at
his companion with a cynical directness which seemed also partly an
expression of fatigue. "You do aggravate me," he remarked in a moment.
"I'm very tired."
"Eh moi donc!" cried Madame Merle.
"With you it's because you fatigue yourself. With me it's not my own
fault."
"When I fatigue myself it's for you. I've given you an interest. That's
a great gift."
"Do you call it an interest?" Osmond enquired with detachment.
"Certainly, since it helps you to pass your time."
"The time has never seemed longer to me than this winter."
"You've never looked better; you've never been so agreeable, so
brilliant."
"Damn my brilliancy!" he thoughtfully murmured. "How little, after all,
you know me!"
"If I don't know you I know nothing," smiled Madame Merle. "You've the
feeling of complete success."
"No, I shall not have that till I've made you stop judging me."
"I did that long ago. I speak from old knowledge. But you express
yourself more too."
Osmond just hung fire. "I wish you'd express yourself less!"
"You wish to condemn me to silence? Remember that I've never been a
chatterbox. At any rate there are three or four things I should like to
say to you first. Your wife doesn't know what to do with herself," she
went on with a change of tone.
"Pardon me; she knows perfectly. She has a line sharply drawn. She means
to carry out her ideas."
"Her ideas to-day must be remarkable."
"Certainly they are. She has more of them than ever."
"She was unable to show me any this morning," said Madame Merle. "She
seemed in a very simple, almost in a stupid, state of mind. She was
completely bewildered."
"You had better say at once that she was pathetic."
"Ah no, I don't want to encourage you too much."
He still had his head against the cushion behind him; the ankle of one
foot rested on the other knee. So he sat for a while. "I should like to
know what's the matter with you," he said at last.
"The matter--the matter--!" And here Madame Merle stopped. Then she went
on with a sudden outbreak of passion, a burst of summer thunder in a
clear sky: "The matter is that I would give my right hand to be able to
weep, and that I can't!"
"What good would it do you to weep?"
"It would make me feel as I felt before I knew you."
"If I've dried your tears, that's something. But I've seen you shed
them."
"Oh, I believe you'll make me cry still. I mean make me howl like a
wolf. I've a great hope, I've a great need, of that. I was vile this
morning; I was horrid," she said.
"If Isabel was in the stupid state of mind you mention she probably
didn't perceive it," Osmond answered.
"It was precisely my deviltry that stupefied her. I couldn't help it; I
was full of something bad. Perhaps it was something good; I don't know.
You've not only dried up my tears; you've dried up my soul."
"It's not I then that am responsible for my wife's condition," Osmond
said. "It's pleasant to think that I shall get the benefit of your
influence upon her. Don't you know the soul is an immortal principle?
How can it suffer alteration?"
"I don't believe at all that it's an immortal principle. I believe it
can perfectly be destroyed. That's what has happened to mine, which
was a very good one to start with; and it's you I have to thank for it.
You're VERY bad," she added with gravity in her emphasis.
"Is this the way we're to end?" Osmond asked with the same studied
coldness.
"I don't know how we're to end. I wish I did--How do bad people
end?--especially as to their COMMON crimes. You have made me as bad as
yourself."
"I don't understand you. You seem to me quite good enough," said Osmond,
his conscious indifference giving an extreme effect to the words.
Madame Merle's self-possession tended on the contrary to diminish, and
she was nearer losing it than on any occasion on which we have had the
pleasure of meeting her. The glow of her eye turners sombre; her smile
betrayed a painful effort. "Good enough for anything that I've done with
myself? I suppose that's what you mean."
"Good enough to be always charming!" Osmond exclaimed, smiling too.
"Oh God!" his companion murmured; and, sitting there in her ripe
freshness, she had recourse to the same gesture she had provoked on
Isabel's part in the morning: she bent her face and covered it with her
hands.
"Are you going to weep after all?" Osmond asked; and on her remaining
motionless he went on: "Have I ever complained to you?"
She dropped her hands quickly. "No, you've taken your revenge
otherwise--you have taken it on HER."
Osmond threw back his head further; he looked a while at the ceiling
and might have been supposed to be appealing, in an informal way, to the
heavenly powers. "Oh, the imagination of women! It's always vulgar, at
bottom. You talk of revenge like a third-rate novelist."
"Of course you haven't complained. You've enjoyed your triumph too
much."
"I'm rather curious to know what you call my triumph."
"You've made your wife afraid of you."
Osmond changed his position; he leaned forward, resting his elbows on
his knees and looking a while at a beautiful old Persian rug, at
his feet. He had an air of refusing to accept any one's valuation
of anything, even of time, and of preferring to abide by his own; a
peculiarity which made him at moments an irritating person to converse
with. "Isabel's not afraid of me, and it's not what I wish," he said
at last. "To what do you want to provoke me when you say such things as
that?"
"I've thought over all the harm you can do me," Madame Merle answered.
"Your wife was afraid of me this morning, but in me it was really you
she feared."
"You may have said things that were in very bad taste; I'm not
responsible for that. I didn't see the use of your going to see her at
all: you're capable of acting without her. I've not made you afraid of
me that I can see," he went on; "how then should I have made her? You're
at least as brave. I can't think where you've picked up such rubbish;
one might suppose you knew me by this time." He got up as he spoke and
walked to the chimney, where he stood a moment bending his eye, as if
he had seen them for the first time, on the delicate specimens of rare
porcelain with which it was covered. He took up a small cup and held it
in his hand; then, still holding it and leaning his arm on the mantel,
he pursued: "You always see too much in everything; you overdo it; you
lose sight of the real. I'm much simpler than you think."
"I think you're very simple." And Madame Merle kept her eye on her cup.
"I've come to that with time. I judged you, as I say, of old; but it's
only since your marriage that I've understood you. I've seen better what
you have been to your wife than I ever saw what you were for me. Please
be very careful of that precious object."
"It already has a wee bit of a tiny crack," said Osmond dryly as he put
it down. "If you didn't understand me before I married it was cruelly
rash of you to put me into such a box. However, I took a fancy to my box
myself; I thought it would be a comfortable fit. I asked very little; I
only asked that she should like me."
"That she should like you so much!"
"So much, of course; in such a case one asks the maximum. That she
should adore me, if you will. Oh yes, I wanted that."
"I never adored you," said Madame Merle.
"Ah, but you pretended to!"
"It's true that you never accused me of being a comfortable fit," Madame
Merle went on.
"My wife has declined--declined to do anything of the sort," said
Osmond. "If you're determined to make a tragedy of that, the tragedy's
hardly for her."
"The tragedy's for me!" Madame Merle exclaimed, rising with a long
low sigh but having a glance at the same time for the contents of her
mantel-shelf.
"It appears that I'm to be severely taught the disadvantages of a false
position."
"You express yourself like a sentence in a copybook. We must look for
our comfort where we can find it. If my wife doesn't like me, at least
my child does. I shall look for compensations in Pansy. Fortunately I
haven't a fault to find with her."
"Ah," she said softly, "if I had a child--!"
Osmond waited, and then, with a little formal air, "The children of
others may be a great interest!" he announced.
"You're more like a copy-book than I. There's something after all that
holds us together."
"Is it the idea of the harm I may do you?" Osmond asked.
"No; it's the idea of the good I may do for you. It's that," Madame
Merle pursued, "that made me so jealous of Isabel. I want it to be
MY work," she added, with her face, which had grown hard and bitter,
relaxing to its habit of smoothness.
Her friend took up his hat and his umbrella, and after giving the
former article two or three strokes with his coat-cuff, "On the whole, I
think," he said, "you had better leave it to me."
After he had left her she went, the first thing, and lifted from the
mantel-shelf the attenuated coffee-cup in which he had mentioned the
existence of a crack; but she looked at it rather abstractedly. "Have I
been so vile all for nothing?" she vaguely wailed.
| Madame Merle returns to Rome and she asks Isabel what happened with Lord Warburton. She pretends to take the whole affair lightly, but Isabel notices that she takes a more zealous interest than she should in Pansy's marriage. Isabel suspects even more than Merle has had a hand in Isabel's own marriage. She no longer feels that Merle's proximity to her is a mere "accident" , but rather that it is intentionally plotted. She has no definite suspicion, but she still feels there had been some sort of intention on Merle's part. Merle lets Isabel know that her husband is disappointed in her. Isabel feels bitter upon hearing how Osmond has been speaking ill of his wife. Merle insists on knowing whether Lord Warburton left on his own or whether Isabel advised it. She thinks it would help Osmond know what his daughter's prospects are if he knew what had occurred. Isabel turns pale. She asks Merle: "Who are you--what are you. What have you to do with my husband. What have you to do with me. Merle responds: "Everything. The truth came over Isabel like a "high-surging wave". Merle had been responsible for her marriage. Isabel goes for a drive alone that afternoon. The image of Madame Merle hovered before her. She wonders if the word "wicked" could be applied to her friend. She realizes that Merle has been deeply false to her. Isabel still wonders why Merle would want to bring about the event of her marriage so much that she should behave so badly. She thinks to herself that it must have something to do with money; Merle had married her to an intimate companion who might give Merle some money. She wonders if Gilbert had only wanted her money, would he let her go if she gave him all of it. She feels sorry for Merle, though, because she thinks she must not have gotten the money she had wanted. The narrator then leads the reader to a scene simultaneously occurring between Gilbert and Merle. Merle thinks Gilbert is ungrateful for what she has given him. Osmond is annoyed with her and asks what is wrong with her. She declares that she would give anything to be able to weep, but that she cannot do so anymore, since she has met Mr. Osmond. Merle recognizes that she was horrible to Isabel and she claims Gilbert has dried up her soul. Merle claims that Osmond has taken out his revenge upon Isabel, making his wife afraid of him and treating her badly. Osmond claims that she loses sight of the real and that he is in fact very simple. He asks only that his wife adore him. Merle says that she herself never adored him, and Osmond points out that she pretended to. Merle mourns the fact that she is being taught a lesson of having represented herself falsely, and Osmond critiques her for sounding like a "sentence in a copy book" | summary |
Madame Merle had not made her appearance at Palazzo Roccanera on the
evening of that Thursday of which I have narrated some of the incidents,
and Isabel, though she observed her absence, was not surprised by it.
Things had passed between them which added no stimulus to sociability,
and to appreciate which we must glance a little backward. It has been
mentioned that Madame Merle returned from Naples shortly after Lord
Warburton had left Rome, and that on her first meeting with Isabel
(whom, to do her justice, she came immediately to see) her first
utterance had been an enquiry as to the whereabouts of this nobleman,
for whom she appeared to hold her dear friend accountable.
"Please don't talk of him," said Isabel for answer; "we've heard so much
of him of late."
Madame Merle bent her head on one side a little, protestingly, and
smiled at the left corner of her mouth. "You've heard, yes. But you must
remember that I've not, in Naples. I hoped to find him here and to be
able to congratulate Pansy."
"You may congratulate Pansy still; but not on marrying Lord Warburton."
"How you say that! Don't you know I had set my heart on it?" Madame
Merle asked with a great deal of spirit, but still with the intonation
of good-humour.
Isabel was discomposed, but she was determined to be good-humoured too.
"You shouldn't have gone to Naples then. You should have stayed here to
watch the affair."
"I had too much confidence in you. But do you think it's too late?"
"You had better ask Pansy," said Isabel.
"I shall ask her what you've said to her."
These words seemed to justify the impulse of self-defence aroused
on Isabel's part by her perceiving that her visitor's attitude was a
critical one. Madame Merle, as we know, had been very discreet hitherto;
she had never criticised; she had been markedly afraid of intermeddling.
But apparently she had only reserved herself for this occasion, since
she now had a dangerous quickness in her eye and an air of irritation
which even her admirable ease was not able to transmute. She had
suffered a disappointment which excited Isabel's surprise--our heroine
having no knowledge of her zealous interest in Pansy's marriage; and
she betrayed it in a manner which quickened Mrs. Osmond's alarm. More
clearly than ever before Isabel heard a cold, mocking voice proceed from
she knew not where, in the dim void that surrounded her, and declare
that this bright, strong, definite, worldly woman, this incarnation of
the practical, the personal, the immediate, was a powerful agent in her
destiny. She was nearer to her than Isabel had yet discovered, and her
nearness was not the charming accident she had so long supposed. The
sense of accident indeed had died within her that day when she happened
to be struck with the manner in which the wonderful lady and her own
husband sat together in private. No definite suspicion had as yet
taken its place; but it was enough to make her view this friend with a
different eye, to have been led to reflect that there was more intention
in her past behaviour than she had allowed for at the time. Ah yes,
there had been intention, there had been intention, Isabel said to
herself; and she seemed to wake from a long pernicious dream. What was
it that brought home to her that Madame Merle's intention had not been
good? Nothing but the mistrust which had lately taken body and which
married itself now to the fruitful wonder produced by her visitor's
challenge on behalf of poor Pansy. There was something in this challenge
which had at the very outset excited an answering defiance; a nameless
vitality which she could see to have been absent from her friend's
professions of delicacy and caution. Madame Merle had been unwilling to
interfere, certainly, but only so long as there was nothing to interfere
with. It will perhaps seem to the reader that Isabel went fast in
casting doubt, on mere suspicion, on a sincerity proved by several
years of good offices. She moved quickly indeed, and with reason, for a
strange truth was filtering into her soul. Madame Merle's interest was
identical with Osmond's: that was enough. "I think Pansy will tell
you nothing that will make you more angry," she said in answer to her
companion's last remark.
"I'm not in the least angry. I've only a great desire to retrieve the
situation. Do you consider that Warburton has left us for ever?"
"I can't tell you; I don't understand you. It's all over; please let it
rest. Osmond has talked to me a great deal about it, and I've nothing
more to say or to hear. I've no doubt," Isabel added, "that he'll be
very happy to discuss the subject with you."
"I know what he thinks; he came to see me last evening."
"As soon as you had arrived? Then you know all about it and you needn't
apply to me for information."
"It isn't information I want. At bottom it's sympathy. I had set my
heart on that marriage; the idea did what so few things do--it satisfied
the imagination."
"Your imagination, yes. But not that of the persons concerned."
"You mean by that of course that I'm not concerned. Of course not
directly. But when one's such an old friend one can't help having
something at stake. You forget how long I've known Pansy. You mean,
of course," Madame Merle added, "that YOU are one of the persons
concerned."
"No; that's the last thing I mean. I'm very weary of it all."
Madame Merle hesitated a little. "Ah yes, your work's done."
"Take care what you say," said Isabel very gravely.
"Oh, I take care; never perhaps more than when it appears least. Your
husband judges you severely."
Isabel made for a moment no answer to this; she felt choked with
bitterness. It was not the insolence of Madame Merle's informing her
that Osmond had been taking her into his confidence as against his wife
that struck her most; for she was not quick to believe that this was
meant for insolence. Madame Merle was very rarely insolent, and only
when it was exactly right. It was not right now, or at least it was not
right yet. What touched Isabel like a drop of corrosive acid upon an
open wound was the knowledge that Osmond dishonoured her in his words as
well as in his thoughts. "Should you like to know how I judge HIM?" she
asked at last.
"No, because you'd never tell me. And it would be painful for me to
know."
There was a pause, and for the first time since she had known her Isabel
thought Madame Merle disagreeable. She wished she would leave her.
"Remember how attractive Pansy is, and don't despair," she said
abruptly, with a desire that this should close their interview.
But Madame Merle's expansive presence underwent no contraction. She only
gathered her mantle about her and, with the movement, scattered upon the
air a faint, agreeable fragrance. "I don't despair; I feel encouraged.
And I didn't come to scold you; I came if possible to learn the truth. I
know you'll tell it if I ask you. It's an immense blessing with you that
one can count upon that. No, you won't believe what a comfort I take in
it."
"What truth do you speak of?" Isabel asked, wondering.
"Just this: whether Lord Warburton changed his mind quite of his own
movement or because you recommended it. To please himself I mean, or to
please you. Think of the confidence I must still have in you, in spite
of having lost a little of it," Madame Merle continued with a smile, "to
ask such a question as that!" She sat looking at her friend, to judge
the effect of her words, and then went on: "Now don't be heroic, don't
be unreasonable, don't take offence. It seems to me I do you an honour
in speaking so. I don't know another woman to whom I would do it. I
haven't the least idea that any other woman would tell me the truth. And
don't you see how well it is that your husband should know it? It's
true that he doesn't appear to have had any tact whatever in trying to
extract it; he has indulged in gratuitous suppositions. But that doesn't
alter the fact that it would make a difference in his view of his
daughter's prospects to know distinctly what really occurred. If Lord
Warburton simply got tired of the poor child, that's one thing, and it's
a pity. If he gave her up to please you it's another. That's a pity too,
but in a different way. Then, in the latter case, you'd perhaps resign
yourself to not being pleased--to simply seeing your step-daughter
married. Let him off--let us have him!"
Madame Merle had proceeded very deliberately, watching her companion and
apparently thinking she could proceed safely. As she went on Isabel grew
pale; she clasped her hands more tightly in her lap. It was not that her
visitor had at last thought it the right time to be insolent; for this
was not what was most apparent. It was a worse horror than that. "Who
are you--what are you?" Isabel murmured. "What have you to do with my
husband?" It was strange that for the moment she drew as near to him as
if she had loved him.
"Ah then, you take it heroically! I'm very sorry. Don't think, however,
that I shall do so."
"What have you to do with me?" Isabel went on.
Madame Merle slowly got up, stroking her muff, but not removing her eyes
from Isabel's face. "Everything!" she answered.
Isabel sat there looking up at her, without rising; her face was almost
a prayer to be enlightened. But the light of this woman's eyes seemed
only a darkness. "Oh misery!" she murmured at last; and she fell
back, covering her face with her hands. It had come over her like a
high-surging wave that Mrs. Touchett was right. Madame Merle had married
her. Before she uncovered her face again that lady had left the room.
Isabel took a drive alone that afternoon; she wished to be far away,
under the sky, where she could descend from her carriage and tread
upon the daisies. She had long before this taken old Rome into her
confidence, for in a world of ruins the ruin of her happiness seemed a
less unnatural catastrophe. She rested her weariness upon things that
had crumbled for centuries and yet still were upright; she dropped her
secret sadness into the silence of lonely places, where its very modern
quality detached itself and grew objective, so that as she sat in a
sun-warmed angle on a winter's day, or stood in a mouldy church to which
no one came, she could almost smile at it and think of its smallness.
Small it was, in the large Roman record, and her haunting sense of the
continuity of the human lot easily carried her from the less to the
greater. She had become deeply, tenderly acquainted with Rome; it
interfused and moderated her passion. But she had grown to think of it
chiefly as the place where people had suffered. This was what came to
her in the starved churches, where the marble columns, transferred from
pagan ruins, seemed to offer her a companionship in endurance and the
musty incense to be a compound of long-unanswered prayers. There was
no gentler nor less consistent heretic than Isabel; the firmest of
worshippers, gazing at dark altar-pictures or clustered candles, could
not have felt more intimately the suggestiveness of these objects nor
have been more liable at such moments to a spiritual visitation. Pansy,
as we know, was almost always her companion, and of late the Countess
Gemini, balancing a pink parasol, had lent brilliancy to their equipage;
but she still occasionally found herself alone when it suited her
mood and where it suited the place. On such occasions she had several
resorts; the most accessible of which perhaps was a seat on the low
parapet which edges the wide grassy space before the high, cold front
of Saint John Lateran, whence you look across the Campagna at the
far-trailing outline of the Alban Mount and at that mighty plain,
between, which is still so full of all that has passed from it. After
the departure of her cousin and his companions she roamed more than
usual; she carried her sombre spirit from one familiar shrine to the
other. Even when Pansy and the Countess were with her she felt the touch
of a vanished world. The carriage, leaving the walls of Rome behind,
rolled through narrow lanes where the wild honeysuckle had begun to
tangle itself in the hedges, or waited for her in quiet places where
the fields lay near, while she strolled further and further over the
flower-freckled turf, or sat on a stone that had once had a use and
gazed through the veil of her personal sadness at the splendid sadness
of the scene--at the dense, warm light, the far gradations and soft
confusions of colour, the motionless shepherds in lonely attitudes, the
hills where the cloud-shadows had the lightness of a blush.
On the afternoon I began with speaking of, she had taken a resolution
not to think of Madame Merle; but the resolution proved vain, and this
lady's image hovered constantly before her. She asked herself, with an
almost childlike horror of the supposition, whether to this intimate
friend of several years the great historical epithet of wicked were
to be applied. She knew the idea only by the Bible and other literary
works; to the best of her belief she had had no personal acquaintance
with wickedness. She had desired a large acquaintance with human life,
and in spite of her having flattered herself that she cultivated it with
some success this elementary privilege had been denied her. Perhaps it
was not wicked--in the historic sense--to be even deeply false; for that
was what Madame Merle had been--deeply, deeply, deeply. Isabel's Aunt
Lydia had made this discovery long before, and had mentioned it to her
niece; but Isabel had flattered herself at this time that she had a much
richer view of things, especially of the spontaneity of her own
career and the nobleness of her own interpretations, than poor
stiffly-reasoning Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle had done what she wanted;
she had brought about the union of her two friends; a reflection which
could not fail to make it a matter of wonder that she should so much
have desired such an event. There were people who had the match-making
passion, like the votaries of art for art; but Madame Merle, great
artist as she was, was scarcely one of these. She thought too ill of
marriage, too ill even of life; she had desired that particular marriage
but had not desired others. She had therefore had a conception of gain,
and Isabel asked herself where she had found her profit. It took her
naturally a long time to discover, and even then her discovery was
imperfect. It came back to her that Madame Merle, though she had seemed
to like her from their first meeting at Gardencourt, had been doubly
affectionate after Mr. Touchett's death and after learning that her
young friend had been subject to the good old man's charity. She had
found her profit not in the gross device of borrowing money, but in
the more refined idea of introducing one of her intimates to the young
woman's fresh and ingenuous fortune. She had naturally chosen her
closest intimate, and it was already vivid enough to Isabel that Gilbert
occupied this position. She found herself confronted in this manner with
the conviction that the man in the world whom she had supposed to be the
least sordid had married her, like a vulgar adventurer, for her money.
Strange to say, it had never before occurred to her; if she had thought
a good deal of harm of Osmond she had not done him this particular
injury. This was the worst she could think of, and she had been saying
to herself that the worst was still to come. A man might marry a woman
for her money perfectly well; the thing was often done. But at least
he should let her know. She wondered whether, since he had wanted her
money, her money would now satisfy him. Would he take her money and let
her go. Ah, if Mr. Touchett's great charity would but help her to-day it
would be blessed indeed! It was not slow to occur to her that if Madame
Merle had wished to do Gilbert a service his recognition to her of the
boon must have lost its warmth. What must be his feelings to-day in
regard to his too zealous benefactress, and what expression must they
have found on the part of such a master of irony? It is a singular, but
a characteristic, fact that before Isabel returned from her silent drive
she had broken its silence by the soft exclamation: "Poor, poor Madame
Merle!"
Her compassion would perhaps have been justified if on this same
afternoon she had been concealed behind one of the valuable curtains of
time-softened damask which dressed the interesting little salon of the
lady to whom it referred; the carefully-arranged apartment to which
we once paid a visit in company with the discreet Mr. Rosier. In that
apartment, towards six o'clock, Gilbert Osmond was seated, and his
hostess stood before him as Isabel had seen her stand on an occasion
commemorated in this history with an emphasis appropriate not so much to
its apparent as to its real importance.
"I don't believe you're unhappy; I believe you like it," said Madame
Merle.
"Did I say I was unhappy?" Osmond asked with a face grave enough to
suggest that he might have been.
"No, but you don't say the contrary, as you ought in common gratitude."
"Don't talk about gratitude," he returned dryly. "And don't aggravate
me," he added in a moment.
Madame Merle slowly seated herself, with her arms folded and her white
hands arranged as a support to one of them and an ornament, as it were,
to the other. She looked exquisitely calm but impressively sad. "On
your side, don't try to frighten me. I wonder if you guess some of my
thoughts."
"I trouble about them no more than I can help. I've quite enough of my
own."
"That's because they're so delightful."
Osmond rested his head against the back of his chair and looked at
his companion with a cynical directness which seemed also partly an
expression of fatigue. "You do aggravate me," he remarked in a moment.
"I'm very tired."
"Eh moi donc!" cried Madame Merle.
"With you it's because you fatigue yourself. With me it's not my own
fault."
"When I fatigue myself it's for you. I've given you an interest. That's
a great gift."
"Do you call it an interest?" Osmond enquired with detachment.
"Certainly, since it helps you to pass your time."
"The time has never seemed longer to me than this winter."
"You've never looked better; you've never been so agreeable, so
brilliant."
"Damn my brilliancy!" he thoughtfully murmured. "How little, after all,
you know me!"
"If I don't know you I know nothing," smiled Madame Merle. "You've the
feeling of complete success."
"No, I shall not have that till I've made you stop judging me."
"I did that long ago. I speak from old knowledge. But you express
yourself more too."
Osmond just hung fire. "I wish you'd express yourself less!"
"You wish to condemn me to silence? Remember that I've never been a
chatterbox. At any rate there are three or four things I should like to
say to you first. Your wife doesn't know what to do with herself," she
went on with a change of tone.
"Pardon me; she knows perfectly. She has a line sharply drawn. She means
to carry out her ideas."
"Her ideas to-day must be remarkable."
"Certainly they are. She has more of them than ever."
"She was unable to show me any this morning," said Madame Merle. "She
seemed in a very simple, almost in a stupid, state of mind. She was
completely bewildered."
"You had better say at once that she was pathetic."
"Ah no, I don't want to encourage you too much."
He still had his head against the cushion behind him; the ankle of one
foot rested on the other knee. So he sat for a while. "I should like to
know what's the matter with you," he said at last.
"The matter--the matter--!" And here Madame Merle stopped. Then she went
on with a sudden outbreak of passion, a burst of summer thunder in a
clear sky: "The matter is that I would give my right hand to be able to
weep, and that I can't!"
"What good would it do you to weep?"
"It would make me feel as I felt before I knew you."
"If I've dried your tears, that's something. But I've seen you shed
them."
"Oh, I believe you'll make me cry still. I mean make me howl like a
wolf. I've a great hope, I've a great need, of that. I was vile this
morning; I was horrid," she said.
"If Isabel was in the stupid state of mind you mention she probably
didn't perceive it," Osmond answered.
"It was precisely my deviltry that stupefied her. I couldn't help it; I
was full of something bad. Perhaps it was something good; I don't know.
You've not only dried up my tears; you've dried up my soul."
"It's not I then that am responsible for my wife's condition," Osmond
said. "It's pleasant to think that I shall get the benefit of your
influence upon her. Don't you know the soul is an immortal principle?
How can it suffer alteration?"
"I don't believe at all that it's an immortal principle. I believe it
can perfectly be destroyed. That's what has happened to mine, which
was a very good one to start with; and it's you I have to thank for it.
You're VERY bad," she added with gravity in her emphasis.
"Is this the way we're to end?" Osmond asked with the same studied
coldness.
"I don't know how we're to end. I wish I did--How do bad people
end?--especially as to their COMMON crimes. You have made me as bad as
yourself."
"I don't understand you. You seem to me quite good enough," said Osmond,
his conscious indifference giving an extreme effect to the words.
Madame Merle's self-possession tended on the contrary to diminish, and
she was nearer losing it than on any occasion on which we have had the
pleasure of meeting her. The glow of her eye turners sombre; her smile
betrayed a painful effort. "Good enough for anything that I've done with
myself? I suppose that's what you mean."
"Good enough to be always charming!" Osmond exclaimed, smiling too.
"Oh God!" his companion murmured; and, sitting there in her ripe
freshness, she had recourse to the same gesture she had provoked on
Isabel's part in the morning: she bent her face and covered it with her
hands.
"Are you going to weep after all?" Osmond asked; and on her remaining
motionless he went on: "Have I ever complained to you?"
She dropped her hands quickly. "No, you've taken your revenge
otherwise--you have taken it on HER."
Osmond threw back his head further; he looked a while at the ceiling
and might have been supposed to be appealing, in an informal way, to the
heavenly powers. "Oh, the imagination of women! It's always vulgar, at
bottom. You talk of revenge like a third-rate novelist."
"Of course you haven't complained. You've enjoyed your triumph too
much."
"I'm rather curious to know what you call my triumph."
"You've made your wife afraid of you."
Osmond changed his position; he leaned forward, resting his elbows on
his knees and looking a while at a beautiful old Persian rug, at
his feet. He had an air of refusing to accept any one's valuation
of anything, even of time, and of preferring to abide by his own; a
peculiarity which made him at moments an irritating person to converse
with. "Isabel's not afraid of me, and it's not what I wish," he said
at last. "To what do you want to provoke me when you say such things as
that?"
"I've thought over all the harm you can do me," Madame Merle answered.
"Your wife was afraid of me this morning, but in me it was really you
she feared."
"You may have said things that were in very bad taste; I'm not
responsible for that. I didn't see the use of your going to see her at
all: you're capable of acting without her. I've not made you afraid of
me that I can see," he went on; "how then should I have made her? You're
at least as brave. I can't think where you've picked up such rubbish;
one might suppose you knew me by this time." He got up as he spoke and
walked to the chimney, where he stood a moment bending his eye, as if
he had seen them for the first time, on the delicate specimens of rare
porcelain with which it was covered. He took up a small cup and held it
in his hand; then, still holding it and leaning his arm on the mantel,
he pursued: "You always see too much in everything; you overdo it; you
lose sight of the real. I'm much simpler than you think."
"I think you're very simple." And Madame Merle kept her eye on her cup.
"I've come to that with time. I judged you, as I say, of old; but it's
only since your marriage that I've understood you. I've seen better what
you have been to your wife than I ever saw what you were for me. Please
be very careful of that precious object."
"It already has a wee bit of a tiny crack," said Osmond dryly as he put
it down. "If you didn't understand me before I married it was cruelly
rash of you to put me into such a box. However, I took a fancy to my box
myself; I thought it would be a comfortable fit. I asked very little; I
only asked that she should like me."
"That she should like you so much!"
"So much, of course; in such a case one asks the maximum. That she
should adore me, if you will. Oh yes, I wanted that."
"I never adored you," said Madame Merle.
"Ah, but you pretended to!"
"It's true that you never accused me of being a comfortable fit," Madame
Merle went on.
"My wife has declined--declined to do anything of the sort," said
Osmond. "If you're determined to make a tragedy of that, the tragedy's
hardly for her."
"The tragedy's for me!" Madame Merle exclaimed, rising with a long
low sigh but having a glance at the same time for the contents of her
mantel-shelf.
"It appears that I'm to be severely taught the disadvantages of a false
position."
"You express yourself like a sentence in a copybook. We must look for
our comfort where we can find it. If my wife doesn't like me, at least
my child does. I shall look for compensations in Pansy. Fortunately I
haven't a fault to find with her."
"Ah," she said softly, "if I had a child--!"
Osmond waited, and then, with a little formal air, "The children of
others may be a great interest!" he announced.
"You're more like a copy-book than I. There's something after all that
holds us together."
"Is it the idea of the harm I may do you?" Osmond asked.
"No; it's the idea of the good I may do for you. It's that," Madame
Merle pursued, "that made me so jealous of Isabel. I want it to be
MY work," she added, with her face, which had grown hard and bitter,
relaxing to its habit of smoothness.
Her friend took up his hat and his umbrella, and after giving the
former article two or three strokes with his coat-cuff, "On the whole, I
think," he said, "you had better leave it to me."
After he had left her she went, the first thing, and lifted from the
mantel-shelf the attenuated coffee-cup in which he had mentioned the
existence of a crack; but she looked at it rather abstractedly. "Have I
been so vile all for nothing?" she vaguely wailed.
| Goodwood is an interesting character because he introduces the specter of a possibly violent resolution to a book that has been so far, very melodramatic. There is the suggestion that he may kill Osmond. He seethes with rage during this scene. James extensively revised sections of the book for his New York Edition anthology in 1907, and it is notable that Goodwood's sections receive much attention. Caspar wants to "penetrate" Isabel - there is a suggestion that he does not only want knowledge of her situation, but carnal knowledge of her. James made Goodwood's sexuality more explicit in his revision of the novel. We might read this through a psychoanalytic lens, whereby sexuality, everywhere repressed by Victorian manners, threatens to bubble to the surface in the figure of Goodwood. Isabel's realizes that Merle and Osmond are much more intimate than she ever knew because Merle begins to deliver messages to Isabel from Osmond. Merle obviously knows what is "between" Osmond and Isabel, and she has acted as an intermediary the whole time. Isabel cannot pinpoint the concrete nature of Merle's interest in her marriage, but she recognizes the plot. This is a demonstration of Isabel's own imagination finally pinning itself on an intricate, real idea, as shadowy as it may be. The reader will remember that at the beginning of the novel, Isabel had only ideas without any concrete articulation of these ideas. Merle has provided the "means" for such an articulation through arranging a marriage to Osmond. However, Isabel here discovers that the intermediary has determined the entire idea. In other words, there is no escaping the effect that a medium has upon the message it expresses. The medium can actually change the meaning of the original idea it meant to express. In other words, Henry James is considering the nature of signifiers in relation to what they ultimately signify. Osmond and Merle's conversation finally reveals the intimate nature of their relationship -- the reader can guess that they once had an affair. Osmond's reaction to Merle is interesting: the story twice ironically references the melodramatic, literary nature of Merle's complaints through the voice of Osmond. He says she likes a "sentence in a copy book" and that she talks of revenge "like a third-rate novelist" . He serves something like an editorial function to her soap opera-like thoughts. It is as if Henry James is reflecting on the melodramatic nature of his plot and trying to "edit" it and make it more realistic through splitting the problem between two characters. We might understand the melodramatic nature of Henry James' novel in the context of Isabel's reference to Merle as a "wicked" person. In our modern world, to make the distinction between good and evil is a more theological notion that does not apply in our daily lives -- it seems somewhat antiquated for example to refer to someone who is a psychologically disturbed criminal as "evil" or "wicked." Isabel therefore notes the foreign usage of the word. Yet she applies the word because she is making a moral judgment of her friend, and morality is based on making such distinctions, between ultimately good and bad actions. To apply a standard of morality to something is generally to draw a line, a strong distinction between options. However, because this fictional world is devoid of religious guidance, it cannot be God who provides a guide for making such distinction. Instead, Henry James makes recourse to the melodrama: a genre that draws drastic distinctions and applies them to events of daily life. For more information on this idea, see Peter Brooks' book, The Melodramatic Imagination . | analysis |
As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient monuments
Isabel occasionally offered to introduce her to these interesting relics
and to give their afternoon drive an antiquarian aim. The Countess, who
professed to think her sister-in-law a prodigy of learning, never made
an objection, and gazed at masses of Roman brickwork as patiently as if
they had been mounds of modern drapery. She had not the historic sense,
though she had in some directions the anecdotic, and as regards herself
the apologetic, but she was so delighted to be in Rome that she only
desired to float with the current. She would gladly have passed an hour
every day in the damp darkness of the Baths of Titus if it had been a
condition of her remaining at Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel, however, was
not a severe cicerone; she used to visit the ruins chiefly because they
offered an excuse for talking about other matters than the love affairs
of the ladies of Florence, as to which her companion was never weary
of offering information. It must be added that during these visits the
Countess forbade herself every form of active research; her preference
was to sit in the carriage and exclaim that everything was most
interesting. It was in this manner that she had hitherto examined the
Coliseum, to the infinite regret of her niece, who--with all the respect
that she owed her--could not see why she should not descend from the
vehicle and enter the building. Pansy had so little chance to ramble
that her view of the case was not wholly disinterested; it may be
divined that she had a secret hope that, once inside, her parents' guest
might be induced to climb to the upper tiers. There came a day when
the Countess announced her willingness to undertake this feat--a mild
afternoon in March when the windy month expressed itself in occasional
puffs of spring. The three ladies went into the Coliseum together,
but Isabel left her companions to wander over the place. She had often
ascended to those desolate ledges from which the Roman crowd used to
bellow applause and where now the wild flowers (when they are allowed)
bloom in the deep crevices; and to-day she felt weary and disposed
to sit in the despoiled arena. It made an intermission too, for the
Countess often asked more from one's attention than she gave in return;
and Isabel believed that when she was alone with her niece she let the
dust gather for a moment on the ancient scandals of the Arnide. She so
remained below therefore, while Pansy guided her undiscriminating aunt
to the steep brick staircase at the foot of which the custodian unlocks
the tall wooden gate. The great enclosure was half in shadow; the
western sun brought out the pale red tone of the great blocks of
travertine--the latent colour that is the only living element in the
immense ruin. Here and there wandered a peasant or a tourist, looking
up at the far sky-line where, in the clear stillness, a multitude of
swallows kept circling and plunging. Isabel presently became aware
that one of the other visitors, planted in the middle of the arena, had
turned his attention to her own person and was looking at her with
a certain little poise of the head which she had some weeks before
perceived to be characteristic of baffled but indestructible purpose.
Such an attitude, to-day, could belong only to Mr. Edward Rosier; and
this gentleman proved in fact to have been considering the question of
speaking to her. When he had assured himself that she was unaccompanied
he drew near, remarking that though she would not answer his letters
she would perhaps not wholly close her ears to his spoken eloquence. She
replied that her stepdaughter was close at hand and that she could only
give him five minutes; whereupon he took out his watch and sat down upon
a broken block.
"It's very soon told," said Edward Rosier. "I've sold all my bibelots!"
Isabel gave instinctively an exclamation of horror; it was as if he had
told her he had had all his teeth drawn. "I've sold them by auction at
the Hotel Drouot," he went on. "The sale took place three days ago, and
they've telegraphed me the result. It's magnificent."
"I'm glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your pretty things."
"I have the money instead--fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr. Osmond think
me rich enough now?"
"Is it for that you did it?" Isabel asked gently.
"For what else in the world could it be? That's the only thing I think
of. I went to Paris and made my arrangements. I couldn't stop for the
sale; I couldn't have seen them going off; I think it would have killed
me. But I put them into good hands, and they brought high prices. I
should tell you I have kept my enamels. Now I have the money in my
pocket, and he can't say I'm poor!" the young man exclaimed defiantly.
"He'll say now that you're not wise," said Isabel, as if Gilbert Osmond
had never said this before.
Rosier gave her a sharp look. "Do you mean that without my bibelots I'm
nothing? Do you mean they were the best thing about me? That's what they
told me in Paris; oh they were very frank about it. But they hadn't seen
HER!"
"My dear friend, you deserve to succeed," said Isabel very kindly.
"You say that so sadly that it's the same as if you said I shouldn't."
And he questioned her eyes with the clear trepidation of his own. He had
the air of a man who knows he has been the talk of Paris for a week and
is full half a head taller in consequence, but who also has a painful
suspicion that in spite of this increase of stature one or two persons
still have the perversity to think him diminutive. "I know what happened
here while I was away," he went on; "What does Mr. Osmond expect after
she has refused Lord Warburton?"
Isabel debated. "That she'll marry another nobleman."
"What other nobleman?"
"One that he'll pick out."
Rosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-pocket.
"You're laughing at some one, but this time I don't think it's at me."
"I didn't mean to laugh," said Isabel. "I laugh very seldom. Now you had
better go away."
"I feel very safe!" Rosier declared without moving. This might be; but
it evidently made him feel more so to make the announcement in rather
a loud voice, balancing himself a little complacently on his toes and
looking all round the Coliseum as if it were filled with an audience.
Suddenly Isabel saw him change colour; there was more of an audience
than he had suspected. She turned and perceived that her two companions
had returned from their excursion. "You must really go away," she said
quickly. "Ah, my dear lady, pity me!" Edward Rosier murmured in a voice
strangely at variance with the announcement I have just quoted. And then
he added eagerly, like a man who in the midst of his misery is seized by
a happy thought: "Is that lady the Countess Gemini? I've a great desire
to be presented to her."
Isabel looked at him a moment. "She has no influence with her brother."
"Ah, what a monster you make him out!" And Rosier faced the Countess,
who advanced, in front of Pansy, with an animation partly due perhaps
to the fact that she perceived her sister-in-law to be engaged in
conversation with a very pretty young man.
"I'm glad you've kept your enamels!" Isabel called as she left him. She
went straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosier, had stopped short,
with lowered eyes. "We'll go back to the carriage," she said gently.
"Yes, it's getting late," Pansy returned more gently still. And she
went on without a murmur, without faltering or glancing back. Isabel,
however, allowing herself this last liberty, saw that a meeting had
immediately taken place between the Countess and Mr. Rosier. He had
removed his hat and was bowing and smiling; he had evidently introduced
himself, while the Countess's expressive back displayed to Isabel's eye
a gracious inclination. These facts, none the less, were presently lost
to sight, for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in the carriage.
Pansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept her eyes fixed on her
lap; then she raised them and rested them on Isabel's. There shone out
of each of them a little melancholy ray--a spark of timid passion which
touched Isabel to the heart. At the same time a wave of envy passed over
her soul, as she compared the tremulous longing, the definite ideal
of the child with her own dry despair. "Poor little Pansy!" she
affectionately said.
"Oh never mind!" Pansy answered in the tone of eager apology. And then
there was a silence; the Countess was a long time coming. "Did you show
your aunt everything, and did she enjoy it?" Isabel asked at last.
"Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased."
"And you're not tired, I hope."
"Oh no, thank you, I'm not tired."
The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested the footman
to go into the Coliseum and tell her they were waiting. He presently
returned with the announcement that the Signora Contessa begged them not
to wait--she would come home in a cab!
About a week after this lady's quick sympathies had enlisted themselves
with Mr. Rosier, Isabel, going rather late to dress for dinner, found
Pansy sitting in her room. The girl seemed to have been awaiting her;
she got up from her low chair. "Pardon my taking the liberty," she said
in a small voice. "It will be the last--for some time."
Her voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had an excited,
frightened look. "You're not going away!" Isabel exclaimed.
"I'm going to the convent."
"To the convent?"
Pansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms round
Isabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood this way a moment,
perfectly still; but her companion could feel her tremble. The quiver
of her little body expressed everything she was unable to say. Isabel
nevertheless pressed her. "Why are you going to the convent?"
"Because papa thinks it best. He says a young girl's better, every now
and then, for making a little retreat. He says the world, always the
world, is very bad for a young girl. This is just a chance for a little
seclusion--a little reflexion." Pansy spoke in short detached sentences,
as if she could scarce trust herself; and then she added with a triumph
of self-control: "I think papa's right; I've been so much in the world
this winter."
Her announcement had a strange effect on Isabel; it seemed to carry a
larger meaning than the girl herself knew. "When was this decided?" she
asked. "I've heard nothing of it."
"Papa told me half an hour ago; he thought it better it shouldn't be
too much talked about in advance. Madame Catherine's to come for me at a
quarter past seven, and I'm only to take two frocks. It's only for a few
weeks; I'm sure it will be very good. I shall find all those ladies who
used to be so kind to me, and I shall see the little girls who are being
educated. I'm very fond of little girls," said Pansy with an effect
of diminutive grandeur. "And I'm also very fond of Mother Catherine. I
shall be very quiet and think a great deal."
Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost awe-struck.
"Think of ME sometimes."
"Ah, come and see me soon!" cried Pansy; and the cry was very different
from the heroic remarks of which she had just delivered herself.
Isabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; she only felt how
little she yet knew her husband. Her answer to his daughter was a long,
tender kiss.
Half an hour later she learned from her maid that Madame Catherine had
arrived in a cab and had departed again with the signorina. On going to
the drawing-room before dinner she found the Countess Gemini alone, and
this lady characterised the incident by exclaiming, with a wonderful
toss of the head, "En voila, ma chere, une pose!" But if it was an
affectation she was at a loss to see what her husband affected. She
could only dimly perceive that he had more traditions than she supposed.
It had become her habit to be so careful as to what she said to him
that, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for several minutes after
he had come in, to allude to his daughter's sudden departure: she
spoke of it only after they were seated at table. But she had forbidden
herself ever to ask Osmond a question. All she could do was to make a
declaration, and there was one that came very naturally. "I shall miss
Pansy very much."
He looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the basket of
flowers in the middle of the table. "Ah yes," he said at last, "I had
thought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too often. I
dare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I doubt if I
can make you understand. It doesn't matter; don't trouble yourself about
it. That's why I had not spoken of it. I didn't believe you would enter
into it. But I've always had the idea; I've always thought it a part
of the education of one's daughter. One's daughter should be fresh and
fair; she should be innocent and gentle. With the manners of the present
time she is liable to become so dusty and crumpled. Pansy's a little
dusty, a little dishevelled; she has knocked about too much. This
bustling, pushing rabble that calls itself society--one should take her
out of it occasionally. Convents are very quiet, very convenient, very
salutary. I like to think of her there, in the old garden, under
the arcade, among those tranquil virtuous women. Many of them are
gentlewomen born; several of them are noble. She will have her books
and her drawing, she will have her piano. I've made the most liberal
arrangements. There is to be nothing ascetic; there's just to be a
certain little sense of sequestration. She'll have time to think, and
there's something I want her to think about." Osmond spoke deliberately,
reasonably, still with his head on one side, as if he were looking at
the basket of flowers. His tone, however, was that of a man not so
much offering an explanation as putting a thing into words--almost into
pictures--to see, himself, how it would look. He considered a while the
picture he had evoked and seemed greatly pleased with it. And then he
went on: "The Catholics are very wise after all. The convent is a great
institution; we can't do without it; it corresponds to an essential need
in families, in society. It's a school of good manners; it's a school
of repose. Oh, I don't want to detach my daughter from the world," he
added; "I don't want to make her fix her thoughts on any other. This
one's very well, as SHE should take it, and she may think of it as much
as she likes. Only she must think of it in the right way."
Isabel gave an extreme attention to this little sketch; she found
it indeed intensely interesting. It seemed to show her how far her
husband's desire to be effective was capable of going--to the point of
playing theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his daughter. She
could not understand his purpose, no--not wholly; but she understood it
better than he supposed or desired, inasmuch as she was convinced
that the whole proceeding was an elaborate mystification, addressed to
herself and destined to act upon her imagination. He had wanted to do
something sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected and refined; to
mark the difference between his sympathies and her own, and show that
if he regarded his daughter as a precious work of art it was natural
he should be more and more careful about the finishing touches. If he
wished to be effective he had succeeded; the incident struck a chill
into Isabel's heart. Pansy had known the convent in her childhood and
had found a happy home there; she was fond of the good sisters, who were
very fond of her, and there was therefore for the moment no definite
hardship in her lot. But all the same the girl had taken fright; the
impression her father desired to make would evidently be sharp enough.
The old Protestant tradition had never faded from Isabel's imagination,
and as her thoughts attached themselves to this striking example of
her husband's genius--she sat looking, like him, at the basket of
flowers--poor little Pansy became the heroine of a tragedy. Osmond
wished it to be known that he shrank from nothing, and his wife found it
hard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain relief presently,
in hearing the high, strained voice of her sister-in-law. The Countess
too, apparently, had been thinking the thing out, but had arrived at a
different conclusion from Isabel.
"It's very absurd, my dear Osmond," she said, "to invent so many pretty
reasons for poor Pansy's banishment. Why don't you say at once that you
want to get her out of my way? Haven't you discovered that I think very
well of Mr. Rosier? I do indeed; he seems to me simpaticissimo. He has
made me believe in true love; I never did before! Of course you've
made up your mind that with those convictions I'm dreadful company for
Pansy."
Osmond took a sip of a glass of wine; he looked perfectly good-humoured.
"My dear Amy," he answered, smiling as if he were uttering a piece
of gallantry, "I don't know anything about your convictions, but if
I suspected that they interfere with mine it would be much simpler to
banish YOU."
| The Countess Gemini is visiting Isabel at the opening of this chapter. Pansy, Isabel and the Countess climb the Coliseum stairs together. Isabel notices, as Pansy and Countess ascend, that Edward Rosier is in the Coliseum as well, and he is watching them. He comes over to Isabel and tells her that he has sold all of his bibelots. He has done so that he will have money instead, enough for Mr. Osmond to think he is rich. Isabel tells him that Mr. Osmond will think him unwise now. Pansy and the Countess approach them, and Edward quickly leaves. On the way home, Pansy shoots Isabel a look of melancholy. Isabel feels sorry for Pansy, but also envious for her timid passion. The Countess and Edward go off together. Later, it seems that the Countess has sided with Edward. The next week, Pansy informs Isabel that her father is sending her back to the convent. Pansy says it will give her time to reflect. She will be very quiet and think a great deal. Isabel promises to visit her. That evening, Isabel tells Osmond that she will miss Pansy very much. He says that he is sending Pansy away because she is "dusty" and "disheveled" from being out in the world too much. The narrator tells us though that his explanation is not so much a real explanation as it is an attempt to put his idea into words, so that he may see how it might look. He declares that he wants Pansy to look at the world in the right way. Isabel finds Osmond's "sketch" very interesting. She feels as if it is being presented to her so as to mystify her, to make her imagination work. The Countess Gemini interrupts Osmond to say that he ought to say he is just banishing Pansy because of Mr. Rosier. Osmond replies that it would be easier to banish the Countess herself | summary |
As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient monuments
Isabel occasionally offered to introduce her to these interesting relics
and to give their afternoon drive an antiquarian aim. The Countess, who
professed to think her sister-in-law a prodigy of learning, never made
an objection, and gazed at masses of Roman brickwork as patiently as if
they had been mounds of modern drapery. She had not the historic sense,
though she had in some directions the anecdotic, and as regards herself
the apologetic, but she was so delighted to be in Rome that she only
desired to float with the current. She would gladly have passed an hour
every day in the damp darkness of the Baths of Titus if it had been a
condition of her remaining at Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel, however, was
not a severe cicerone; she used to visit the ruins chiefly because they
offered an excuse for talking about other matters than the love affairs
of the ladies of Florence, as to which her companion was never weary
of offering information. It must be added that during these visits the
Countess forbade herself every form of active research; her preference
was to sit in the carriage and exclaim that everything was most
interesting. It was in this manner that she had hitherto examined the
Coliseum, to the infinite regret of her niece, who--with all the respect
that she owed her--could not see why she should not descend from the
vehicle and enter the building. Pansy had so little chance to ramble
that her view of the case was not wholly disinterested; it may be
divined that she had a secret hope that, once inside, her parents' guest
might be induced to climb to the upper tiers. There came a day when
the Countess announced her willingness to undertake this feat--a mild
afternoon in March when the windy month expressed itself in occasional
puffs of spring. The three ladies went into the Coliseum together,
but Isabel left her companions to wander over the place. She had often
ascended to those desolate ledges from which the Roman crowd used to
bellow applause and where now the wild flowers (when they are allowed)
bloom in the deep crevices; and to-day she felt weary and disposed
to sit in the despoiled arena. It made an intermission too, for the
Countess often asked more from one's attention than she gave in return;
and Isabel believed that when she was alone with her niece she let the
dust gather for a moment on the ancient scandals of the Arnide. She so
remained below therefore, while Pansy guided her undiscriminating aunt
to the steep brick staircase at the foot of which the custodian unlocks
the tall wooden gate. The great enclosure was half in shadow; the
western sun brought out the pale red tone of the great blocks of
travertine--the latent colour that is the only living element in the
immense ruin. Here and there wandered a peasant or a tourist, looking
up at the far sky-line where, in the clear stillness, a multitude of
swallows kept circling and plunging. Isabel presently became aware
that one of the other visitors, planted in the middle of the arena, had
turned his attention to her own person and was looking at her with
a certain little poise of the head which she had some weeks before
perceived to be characteristic of baffled but indestructible purpose.
Such an attitude, to-day, could belong only to Mr. Edward Rosier; and
this gentleman proved in fact to have been considering the question of
speaking to her. When he had assured himself that she was unaccompanied
he drew near, remarking that though she would not answer his letters
she would perhaps not wholly close her ears to his spoken eloquence. She
replied that her stepdaughter was close at hand and that she could only
give him five minutes; whereupon he took out his watch and sat down upon
a broken block.
"It's very soon told," said Edward Rosier. "I've sold all my bibelots!"
Isabel gave instinctively an exclamation of horror; it was as if he had
told her he had had all his teeth drawn. "I've sold them by auction at
the Hotel Drouot," he went on. "The sale took place three days ago, and
they've telegraphed me the result. It's magnificent."
"I'm glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your pretty things."
"I have the money instead--fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr. Osmond think
me rich enough now?"
"Is it for that you did it?" Isabel asked gently.
"For what else in the world could it be? That's the only thing I think
of. I went to Paris and made my arrangements. I couldn't stop for the
sale; I couldn't have seen them going off; I think it would have killed
me. But I put them into good hands, and they brought high prices. I
should tell you I have kept my enamels. Now I have the money in my
pocket, and he can't say I'm poor!" the young man exclaimed defiantly.
"He'll say now that you're not wise," said Isabel, as if Gilbert Osmond
had never said this before.
Rosier gave her a sharp look. "Do you mean that without my bibelots I'm
nothing? Do you mean they were the best thing about me? That's what they
told me in Paris; oh they were very frank about it. But they hadn't seen
HER!"
"My dear friend, you deserve to succeed," said Isabel very kindly.
"You say that so sadly that it's the same as if you said I shouldn't."
And he questioned her eyes with the clear trepidation of his own. He had
the air of a man who knows he has been the talk of Paris for a week and
is full half a head taller in consequence, but who also has a painful
suspicion that in spite of this increase of stature one or two persons
still have the perversity to think him diminutive. "I know what happened
here while I was away," he went on; "What does Mr. Osmond expect after
she has refused Lord Warburton?"
Isabel debated. "That she'll marry another nobleman."
"What other nobleman?"
"One that he'll pick out."
Rosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-pocket.
"You're laughing at some one, but this time I don't think it's at me."
"I didn't mean to laugh," said Isabel. "I laugh very seldom. Now you had
better go away."
"I feel very safe!" Rosier declared without moving. This might be; but
it evidently made him feel more so to make the announcement in rather
a loud voice, balancing himself a little complacently on his toes and
looking all round the Coliseum as if it were filled with an audience.
Suddenly Isabel saw him change colour; there was more of an audience
than he had suspected. She turned and perceived that her two companions
had returned from their excursion. "You must really go away," she said
quickly. "Ah, my dear lady, pity me!" Edward Rosier murmured in a voice
strangely at variance with the announcement I have just quoted. And then
he added eagerly, like a man who in the midst of his misery is seized by
a happy thought: "Is that lady the Countess Gemini? I've a great desire
to be presented to her."
Isabel looked at him a moment. "She has no influence with her brother."
"Ah, what a monster you make him out!" And Rosier faced the Countess,
who advanced, in front of Pansy, with an animation partly due perhaps
to the fact that she perceived her sister-in-law to be engaged in
conversation with a very pretty young man.
"I'm glad you've kept your enamels!" Isabel called as she left him. She
went straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosier, had stopped short,
with lowered eyes. "We'll go back to the carriage," she said gently.
"Yes, it's getting late," Pansy returned more gently still. And she
went on without a murmur, without faltering or glancing back. Isabel,
however, allowing herself this last liberty, saw that a meeting had
immediately taken place between the Countess and Mr. Rosier. He had
removed his hat and was bowing and smiling; he had evidently introduced
himself, while the Countess's expressive back displayed to Isabel's eye
a gracious inclination. These facts, none the less, were presently lost
to sight, for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in the carriage.
Pansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept her eyes fixed on her
lap; then she raised them and rested them on Isabel's. There shone out
of each of them a little melancholy ray--a spark of timid passion which
touched Isabel to the heart. At the same time a wave of envy passed over
her soul, as she compared the tremulous longing, the definite ideal
of the child with her own dry despair. "Poor little Pansy!" she
affectionately said.
"Oh never mind!" Pansy answered in the tone of eager apology. And then
there was a silence; the Countess was a long time coming. "Did you show
your aunt everything, and did she enjoy it?" Isabel asked at last.
"Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased."
"And you're not tired, I hope."
"Oh no, thank you, I'm not tired."
The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested the footman
to go into the Coliseum and tell her they were waiting. He presently
returned with the announcement that the Signora Contessa begged them not
to wait--she would come home in a cab!
About a week after this lady's quick sympathies had enlisted themselves
with Mr. Rosier, Isabel, going rather late to dress for dinner, found
Pansy sitting in her room. The girl seemed to have been awaiting her;
she got up from her low chair. "Pardon my taking the liberty," she said
in a small voice. "It will be the last--for some time."
Her voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had an excited,
frightened look. "You're not going away!" Isabel exclaimed.
"I'm going to the convent."
"To the convent?"
Pansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms round
Isabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood this way a moment,
perfectly still; but her companion could feel her tremble. The quiver
of her little body expressed everything she was unable to say. Isabel
nevertheless pressed her. "Why are you going to the convent?"
"Because papa thinks it best. He says a young girl's better, every now
and then, for making a little retreat. He says the world, always the
world, is very bad for a young girl. This is just a chance for a little
seclusion--a little reflexion." Pansy spoke in short detached sentences,
as if she could scarce trust herself; and then she added with a triumph
of self-control: "I think papa's right; I've been so much in the world
this winter."
Her announcement had a strange effect on Isabel; it seemed to carry a
larger meaning than the girl herself knew. "When was this decided?" she
asked. "I've heard nothing of it."
"Papa told me half an hour ago; he thought it better it shouldn't be
too much talked about in advance. Madame Catherine's to come for me at a
quarter past seven, and I'm only to take two frocks. It's only for a few
weeks; I'm sure it will be very good. I shall find all those ladies who
used to be so kind to me, and I shall see the little girls who are being
educated. I'm very fond of little girls," said Pansy with an effect
of diminutive grandeur. "And I'm also very fond of Mother Catherine. I
shall be very quiet and think a great deal."
Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost awe-struck.
"Think of ME sometimes."
"Ah, come and see me soon!" cried Pansy; and the cry was very different
from the heroic remarks of which she had just delivered herself.
Isabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; she only felt how
little she yet knew her husband. Her answer to his daughter was a long,
tender kiss.
Half an hour later she learned from her maid that Madame Catherine had
arrived in a cab and had departed again with the signorina. On going to
the drawing-room before dinner she found the Countess Gemini alone, and
this lady characterised the incident by exclaiming, with a wonderful
toss of the head, "En voila, ma chere, une pose!" But if it was an
affectation she was at a loss to see what her husband affected. She
could only dimly perceive that he had more traditions than she supposed.
It had become her habit to be so careful as to what she said to him
that, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for several minutes after
he had come in, to allude to his daughter's sudden departure: she
spoke of it only after they were seated at table. But she had forbidden
herself ever to ask Osmond a question. All she could do was to make a
declaration, and there was one that came very naturally. "I shall miss
Pansy very much."
He looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the basket of
flowers in the middle of the table. "Ah yes," he said at last, "I had
thought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too often. I
dare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I doubt if I
can make you understand. It doesn't matter; don't trouble yourself about
it. That's why I had not spoken of it. I didn't believe you would enter
into it. But I've always had the idea; I've always thought it a part
of the education of one's daughter. One's daughter should be fresh and
fair; she should be innocent and gentle. With the manners of the present
time she is liable to become so dusty and crumpled. Pansy's a little
dusty, a little dishevelled; she has knocked about too much. This
bustling, pushing rabble that calls itself society--one should take her
out of it occasionally. Convents are very quiet, very convenient, very
salutary. I like to think of her there, in the old garden, under
the arcade, among those tranquil virtuous women. Many of them are
gentlewomen born; several of them are noble. She will have her books
and her drawing, she will have her piano. I've made the most liberal
arrangements. There is to be nothing ascetic; there's just to be a
certain little sense of sequestration. She'll have time to think, and
there's something I want her to think about." Osmond spoke deliberately,
reasonably, still with his head on one side, as if he were looking at
the basket of flowers. His tone, however, was that of a man not so
much offering an explanation as putting a thing into words--almost into
pictures--to see, himself, how it would look. He considered a while the
picture he had evoked and seemed greatly pleased with it. And then he
went on: "The Catholics are very wise after all. The convent is a great
institution; we can't do without it; it corresponds to an essential need
in families, in society. It's a school of good manners; it's a school
of repose. Oh, I don't want to detach my daughter from the world," he
added; "I don't want to make her fix her thoughts on any other. This
one's very well, as SHE should take it, and she may think of it as much
as she likes. Only she must think of it in the right way."
Isabel gave an extreme attention to this little sketch; she found
it indeed intensely interesting. It seemed to show her how far her
husband's desire to be effective was capable of going--to the point of
playing theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his daughter. She
could not understand his purpose, no--not wholly; but she understood it
better than he supposed or desired, inasmuch as she was convinced
that the whole proceeding was an elaborate mystification, addressed to
herself and destined to act upon her imagination. He had wanted to do
something sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected and refined; to
mark the difference between his sympathies and her own, and show that
if he regarded his daughter as a precious work of art it was natural
he should be more and more careful about the finishing touches. If he
wished to be effective he had succeeded; the incident struck a chill
into Isabel's heart. Pansy had known the convent in her childhood and
had found a happy home there; she was fond of the good sisters, who were
very fond of her, and there was therefore for the moment no definite
hardship in her lot. But all the same the girl had taken fright; the
impression her father desired to make would evidently be sharp enough.
The old Protestant tradition had never faded from Isabel's imagination,
and as her thoughts attached themselves to this striking example of
her husband's genius--she sat looking, like him, at the basket of
flowers--poor little Pansy became the heroine of a tragedy. Osmond
wished it to be known that he shrank from nothing, and his wife found it
hard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain relief presently,
in hearing the high, strained voice of her sister-in-law. The Countess
too, apparently, had been thinking the thing out, but had arrived at a
different conclusion from Isabel.
"It's very absurd, my dear Osmond," she said, "to invent so many pretty
reasons for poor Pansy's banishment. Why don't you say at once that you
want to get her out of my way? Haven't you discovered that I think very
well of Mr. Rosier? I do indeed; he seems to me simpaticissimo. He has
made me believe in true love; I never did before! Of course you've
made up your mind that with those convictions I'm dreadful company for
Pansy."
Osmond took a sip of a glass of wine; he looked perfectly good-humoured.
"My dear Amy," he answered, smiling as if he were uttering a piece
of gallantry, "I don't know anything about your convictions, but if
I suspected that they interfere with mine it would be much simpler to
banish YOU."
| Osmond's decision to send Pansy away is his attempt to exercise more control over Pansy and her understanding of the world. Pansy, ever the obedient daughter, does not take it bitterly and resolves herself to do what her father tells her. Osmond though wants to present his idea as if it is for his daughter's own interest, and he creates a "portrait." This is an extended metaphor that is employed by the narrator to describe Osmond's actions. This metaphor then is presented to Isabel, who realizes the aesthetic illusion this sketch is supposed to create. The metaphor then serves to allow us to view these people's social relations and their attempts to manipulate the truth as similar to the way we approach a work of art. The reader of this ClassicNote will remember that aesthetics is the philosophical inquiry into what makes something beautiful, and what makes something into a work of art. Henry James, through this metaphor, is showing how Osmond can use aesthetic means to manipulate an ugly truth, to make an ugly truth appear better. Isabel, who once was convinced by Osmond's good taste , now is suspicious of it. She knows that it is a trick designed to work on her imagination, to make her believe that values are there which are not actually there. Osmond is able to control Isabel by appealing to her sense of higher values -- values that she realizes he does not share, but which he can nevertheless use against her. She tries to point out his hypocrisy, but he is somehow maintains the upper hand. The Countess arrives to put one of the final pieces of the puzzle together for Isabel. The use of a minor character to tie up this loose end and give a concrete reality to a suspicion that is only shadowy in Isabel's mind is a technique that is common to James' novels. In his New York Edition Prefaces, he calls it the use of a 'ficelle': a character that helps advance the plot, economizing on the infinite possibilities of what might happen by being minor themselves and somewhat two-dimensional. When Isabel learns the truth, she shows her truly good nature by exercising her empathy for Madame Merle, who has so wickedly deceived her. She recognizes that not even Pansy likes Madame Merle - Pansy, Merle's very own daughter. Isabel has been successful exactly where Merle has not been: she has money, has received marriage proposals from prominent men, and she is often thought of as Pansy's guardian and stepmother. | analysis |
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